/ 


FRANCE  FROM 
SEA  TO  SEA 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2008  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/francefromseatosOOriggricln 


c8 

c 

O 
c 
> 


o 

c 

C 

a 


^  ^ 


c 

> 

CO 

V 

fc 

CS 

a 

(U 

i-i 

E 

3 

o 

o 

c 

O 


FRANCE  FROM 
SEA  TO  SEA 


By 

ARTHUR  STANLEY  RIGGS 

F.  R.  G.  S. 

Author  of  **  Vistas  in  Sicily  " 


NEW   YORK 

McBRIDE,  NAST  &  COMPANY 
1913 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
McBRIDE,  NAST  &  CO. 


Published  May,  1913 


TO 

THOSE   WHO,    LOVERS   OF    NATURAL  BEAUTY 

AND   FRIENDS    OF   THEIR   FELLOW    MEN, 

SEE    THE    SUNBEAM    RATHER   THAN 

THE    MOTE    FLOATING    UPON    IT, 

AND    LIVE    THE   PROVERB 

Honi  soit  qui  mal  y  pense. 


Some  of  the  material  that  follows  has  appeared  as  arti- 
cles in  Travel,  to  whose  editor  the  thanks  of  the  author  are 

due  for  permission  to  reprint  such  matter. 

A.  S.  R. 


"Onoatok," 
Thorndale,  Pa.; 
March  1,  1913. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 


Introduction. 

I. 

Impressions        ...... 

1 

II. 

Golden  Sands  of  Picardy 

13 

III. 

Abbeville  and  Nearby 

25 

IV. 

Stone  Bibles 

36 

V. 

Champagne  and  Churches 

50 

VI. 

The  Golden  Side     . 

61 

VII. 

Among  the  Domes    .... 

75 

VIII. 

The  City  of  Many  Bridges     . 

86 

IX. 

Grenoble,  the  Grande  Chartreuse 

and  Chambery      .... 

98 

X. 

Going  to  Grasse       .... 

113 

XI. 

Grasse  and  the  Riviera  . 

123 

XII. 

Old  Provence 

134 

XIII. 

"A  Dream  of  Fair  Women"    . 

145 

XIV. 

The  Home  of  the  Seven  Popes 

158 

XV. 

The  Living  and  the  Dead 

170 

XVI. 

Through  Languedoc 

179 

CHAPTER  PAGH 

XVII.     Perigueux,  Limoges  and  Poitiers  .  191 

XVIII.     The  Playground  of  the  Kings      .  206 

XIX.     In  Bourges  and  Angers  .        .        ,.  223 

XX.     In  Old  Brittany       ....  234 

XXI.     The  Norman  Country     .        ^.,        .  249 

XXII.     Rouen        .        .        .        .       ...        .  261 

XXIII.     Historic  Paris  ...,.,.  278 

XXIV.     The  Siren  of  the  Seine         .        .  292 

Bibliography    .        .        .        .        .  305 

Index         .....:.  307 


THE    ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

Grenoble      ....  Frontispiece 


The  Street  of  108  Steps 

A  Charming  Vista  on  the  River  Somme 

The  Reims  Cathedral 

A  Perfume  Factory  in  Grasse     . 

The  Viaducts  near  Grenoble 

A  Daughter  of  Arles 

The  Monastery  Castle  of  St.  Honorat 

The  Amphitheater  of  Arles 

The  Palace  of  the  Popes  at  Avignon 

View  of  Perigueux       .... 

The  Chateau  de  Chenonceaux  . 

A  Wedding  Dance  at  Vannes 


A  Section  of  the  Famous  Bayeux  Tapestry     256 


The  Roman  Baths  at  Nimes 
Aigues-Mortes 


4) 

22 

52 

78 

100 

116 

130 

150 

166 

194 

214 

236 


274 
296 


FRANCE  FROM 
SEA  TO  SEA 


INTRODUCTION 

HOW  the  French  have  stirred  up  the  world 
from  time  to  time,  be  it  with  admiration 
or  with  horror!  And  how  they  have  led 
the  world,  now  here,  now  there,  but  ever  with  bound- 
less enthusiasm,  is  an  interesting  study  to  us  Ameri- 
cans of  the  United  States,  for  we  are  also  an  enthusi- 
astic folk,  though  perhaps  we  flatter  ourselves  that 
we  are  so  in  a  saner  way.  The  French  are  nothing 
if  not  individual,  and  the  spirit  within  them,  that 
stirs  them,  and  stirs  all  the  world  to  love  or  to  hate 
them — whence  did  it  come? 

Primitive  men  there  were  in  France,  dwellers  in 
caves,  and  builders  of  megalithic  monuments ;  but 
the  three  bases  of  the  French  nation  are  Celts,  Ro- 
mans and  Franks.  To  be  sure,  in  the  south  there 
were  Iberians,  Ligurians,  Phoenicians  and  Greeks,  all 
before  the  Romans  came  in  ;  and  afterward,  Visigoths 
and  Saracens ;  in  the  north,  Celts  from  Britain  and 
the  later  Northmen ;  in  the  east,  Burgundians.  But 
it  is  more  reasonable  to  suppose  that  the  thing  that 
makes  for  the  strong  distinctiveness  of  the  French 
character,  the  genie  nationale,  derives  from  one  of 
the  three  fundamental  races,  or  from  a  combination 
of  them. 


INTRODUCTION 


When  the  authenticated  story  of  France  began, 
the  country  was  inhabited  by  various  strong  tribes 
of  Celts,  whose  blood  made  the  solid  foundation  upon 
which  the  nation  was  erected.  In  154  b.c.  a  pros- 
perous Greek  colony  at  Massilia,  now  Marseilles, 
hard  pressed  by  its  barbarous  neighbors,  invited  the 
victorious  Romans  to  their  aid,  and  they,  of  course, 
came  into  Gaul  to  stay.  To  the  Romans  originally 
everything  north  of  the  Tiber  was  Gaul;  but  later 
the  name  narrowed  down  to  what  is  now  France.  The 
Romans  gave  the  semi-savages  they  conquered  peace 
and  its  arts,  a  cultured  speech,  a  marvelous  code  of 
legal  procedure,  and  the  land  a  place  in  world-history. 
In  that  wild  and  stormy  fifth  century,  when  the  world 
seemed  moving  about  as  it  had  never  moved  before, 
various  Germanic  tribes  pressed  into  Gaul,  and  took 
what  they  would  of  the  unhappy  land  worn  out  by 
Roman  excesses.  By  the  year  413  one  tribe,  the 
Burgundians,  had  established  themselves  in  a  large 
eastern  district  with  a  very  flexible  boundary.  A 
little  later  another  tribe,  the  Visigoths,  settled  in 
the  south.  Then,  in  443,  came  the  Franks,  to  whom 
the  country  owes  not  only  some  of  its  blood  and 
laws  and  institutions,  but  its  very  name.  By  481 
the  first  Frankish  dynasty,  the  Merovingian,  was 
definitely  established.  What  a  record  of  intrigue  and 
bloodshed  they  have  left  us,  with  the  vanity,  venge- 
fulness  and  ambition  of  woman  often  as  the  moving 
spring.  Weakened  by  their  excesses,  they  were  thrust 
from  the  throne  by  their  own  mayors  of  the  palace 


INTRODUCTION 


— who  founded  the  Carlovingian  line  that  gave 
Charlemagne  to  the  world — all  German,  and  consid- 
ering France  as  merely  part  of  a  great  and  holy 
empire.  The  Carlovingians  lasted  even  a  shorter 
period  than  their  predecessors,  and  toward  the  end; 
of  their  regime  we  have  the  instructive  spectacle  of 
the  King  of  the  Franks  perched  on  the  hilltop  at 
Laon,  on  the  eastern  extremity  of  the  lie  de  France, 
in  daily  fear  that  the  powerful  Duke  of  Normandy, 
or  the  Count  of  Paris — who  was  also  the  Due  de 
France — would  pounce  upon  his  mighty  hill  fortress, 
and  wrest  from  him  even  the  nominal  sovereignty  he 
possessed.  Indeed,  it  was  the  pusillanimity  of  the 
Carlovingians  during  the  early  raids  of  the  North- 
men, when  they  left  the  defense  of  the  capital 
to  the  courageous  Counts  of  Paris,  that  eventu- 
ally cost  them  the  throne,  and  gave  the  latter  their 
chance,  bringing  them  into  power  as  the  House 
of  Capet.  For  eight  hundred  years  this  line  gave 
the  ever-growing  kingdom  an  uninterrupted  suc- 
cession of  rulers  who  made  their  land  great  and 
independent. 

How  those  Capetians  worked,  with  an  eye  single 
to  the  one  object — the  building  up  of  their  king- 
dom !  And  what  a  variety  of  work  there  was— 
always  according  to  the  type  of  king — now  strategy, 
now  force,  now  gaining,  now  losing  a  little,  but  al- 
ways with  eye  and  mind  fixed,  struggling  steadily 
ahead  undaunted.  Their  task  was  herculean.  Be- 
fore their  accession  the  feudal  system  had  developed 


INTRODUCTION 


throughout  the  land  to  such  an  extent  that  the  king 
himself  was  often  only  a  strong  lord  among  his 
stronger  vassals.  Then,  too,  strange  as  it  now 
appears,  the  kings  of  England,  in  the  thirteenth 
century — through  inheritance  and  marriage — ^held 
greater  possessions  in  France  than  the  French  kings 
themselves — a  mighty  enemy  on  the  very  hearthstone. 
And  after  both  these  obstacles  had  been  surmounted 
the  country  still  remained  to  be  knitted  together  into 
a  real  and  living  nation. 

What  a  variety  of  kings  that  line  produced !  Now 
a  Philippe  Auguste,  well  named,  for  he  was  a  Caesar 
in  his  plans  and  their  working  out ;  now  a  saint — 
for  St.  Louis  was  a  real  saint;  now  a  Charles  the 
Wise;  now  a  Charles  the  Well-Served,  who  betrayed 
those  who  served  him  well;  now  a  human  hyena  and 
genius  in  Louis  XI;  now  a  Grand  Monarque;  and 
those  others  who,  through  their  folly  and  wickedness, 
let  go  all  their  ancestors  had  gathered  together. 

Even  before  the  coming  of  the  Franks  there  was 
a  power  in  the  land  that  grew  on  into  a  formidable 
force,  keeping  step  from  the  beginning,  and  fre- 
quently testing  its  strength  with  the  kings,  quite 
as  often  as  not  besting  them — the  Church.  Often 
its  pretensions  were  unrighteous ;  again,  it  was  honey- 
combed with  deceit  and  corruption,  and  reproaches 
were  heaped  upon  it  for  temporal  aggrandizement 
that  comported  ill  with  the  doctrine  it  preached. 
Nevertheless,  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  the 
Church,  and  it  alone,  preserved  for  us  during  the 


INTRODUCTION 


Dark  Ages  that  followed  the  collapse  of  the  Roman 
civilization  whatever  was  worth  while  in  the  world. 
Tirelessly  it  preserved  the  torch  of  learning  ablaze, 
disseminated  at  least  something  of  truth,  and,  above 
all,  kept  before  the  world  a  spirit  of  reverence  and 
worship  for  something  higher  and  finer  than  the 
mere  things  of  life. 

And  all  this  time  what  of  the  great,  silent,  earth- 
born  masses.''  What  were  they  doing?  Sometimes 
bearing  their  burdens  cheerfully  enough,  but  as  often 
as  not  struggling,  writhing  like  a  sleeping  giant, 
gathering  strength;  or  perhaps  still  more  like  the 
sullen  molten  mass  that  writhes  and  struggles  in 
the  bowels  of  tjie  earth  until  ready  to  belch  forth 
irresistibly  and  sweep  the  earth  bare  in  its  loose 
fury.  In  their  writhing  how  often  they  turned  upon 
their  brethren  and  joyously  slew  them,  seeming  not 
to  care  whose  blood  was  shed  so  it  was  shed.  Surely 
in  no  other  civilized  land  were  ever  such  gory  ex- 
cesses. Then,  when  the  cataclysm  could  no  longer 
be  denied — the  Terror!  No  matter  what  we  may 
think  of  the  horrors  of  that  dreadful  period,  the  fact 
remains  that  it  marked  a  tremendous  stride  in  the 
progress  of  humanity.  Because  of  it,  it  was  admitted, 
however  reluctantly,  that  the  people  as  a  mass  have 
rights.  In  token  of  those  rights  France  made  her 
national  motto  and  the  key-note  of  her  modern  exist- 
ence, Liberty,  Fraternity,  Equality ;  and  even  if  the 
dreams  those  words  inspired  could  not  be  entirely 
realized,  through  human  fallibility,  there  has  been 

v 


INTRODUCTION 


a   steady   advance   toward   embodying  them  in   the 
constitution  of  all  modern  society. 

As  for  France  herself,  to-day,  after  many  experi- 
ments with  republics  as  well  as  with  emperors  and 
kings,  the  stability  of  her  national  life  seems  as- 
sured. Once  more  opportunity  for  greatness  and 
leadership  seems  to  be  knocking  at  her  door.  What 
will  she  do? 


Yl 


France  from  Sea   to  Sea 


IMPRESSIONS 

TO  many  places  one  must  go  in  the  spring  to 
see  the  country  at  its  best;  not  so  La  Belle 
France.  Surely  no  other  name  of  affection 
for  a  land  was  ever  better  deserved  than  this.  From 
the  golden  sands  of  Picardy  to  the  blue  shore  of  the 
Mediterranean,  every  province  is  lovely,  and  every 
one  has  its  own  special  form  of  loveliness,  its  definite 
characteristics :  golden  sands,  apple  orchards  and  bil- 
lowing fields  of  grain;  black  rocks,  gray  weather, 
the  Miserere  of  the  sea  for  the  music  of  life — and 
death ;  brilliant  rivers  that  wind  in  sinuous  coils,  and 
dark,  sullen  streams  that  force  their  way  to  the  sea 
with  savage  impetuosity ;  placid  canals  and  milky 
highroads  bordered  by  slender  trees ;  endless  vine- 
yards, where  bursting  grapes  drink  deep  of  the  golden 
sun ;  the  sky-piercing  fence  of  the  Alps,  sawteeth 
full  of  snow,  and  bristling  with  pine  and  fir ;  vast, 
solemn  gorges,  suggestive  of  the  Canon  of  the  Colo- 
rado ;  barren  deserts  of  gray  or  tan,  and  wide  marshes 

[I] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 


with  blue  lagoons  ;  air  full  of  shimmering  heat  waves, 
of  myriad  colors  and  the  subtle  perfume  of  rose  and 
olive  and  oleander,  linden  and  jasmine  and  whispering 
palm.  Blue  the  sky  and  blue  the  shore — but  why  go 
on  forever? 

Pity  those  misguided  souls  who  either  rush  by 
all  this  to  frivol  away  their  time  in  Paris,  among  the 
cafes  and  shops  and  hotels,  with  a  lot  of  other  stuffy 
spenders,  or  who  wait  to  see  the  country  until  their 
jaded  senses  refuse  to  absorb  the  beauty  and  charm 
of  Nature.  These  are  they  who  know  naught  of  the 
joys  of  loitering  across  sylvan  scenes  in  stertorous 
little  trains  of  matchboxes  on  wheels,  that  have  to 
stop  every  few  kilometres  to  let  the  sniffling  little 
engine  get  its  breath — ^there  is  opportunity  for  pic- 
tures; who  miss  entirely  the  delights  of  the  people, 
of  that  friendly  welcome  into  the  httle  compartment 
where  a  peasant  cheerily  .lifts  a  chicken  out  of  the 
way  to  let  you  sit  down,  or  pushes  aside  a  huge  basket 
of  vegetables  to  let  you  pass ;  who  never  experience 
the  delights  of  quiet,  unpretentious  little  hotels,  bliss- 
fully ignorant  of  Paris  ways  and  Paris  prices,  where 
the  proprietor,  also  the  chef  de  cuisine,  comes,  smiling 
and  bowing,  out  of  his  immaculate  kitchen,  wiping 
his  soft,  pink  hands  on  his  immaculate  apron,  to  wish 
you  hon  voyage  with  a  heart-warming  handshake. 

Some  of  these  hostelries  are  more  than  three  hun- 
dred years  old.  The  stairs  play  about  like  the 
streams  of  a  fountain,  dividing,  twisting,  shooting 
off  at  crazy  angles,  like  wind-blown  water.    It  takes 

[2] 


IMPRESSIONS 


a  strong  bump  of  location  to  find  the  path  to  your 
own  chamber.  One  inn  is  entered  through  a  fragrant 
kitchen,  another  through  a  littered  dining-room  or 
a  public  bar.  Once  we  found  a  narrow,  circular  stair, 
without  any  kind  of  rail,  winding  up  from  the 
kitchen ;  and  in  the  floor,  before  the  first  step,  was  a 
villainous  trapdoor.  Was  it  oubliette,  or  only  wine 
cellar.?  We  never  knew,  but  only  the  guidebook's 
recommendation  took  us  across  that  wicked-looking 
door. 

There  are  so  many  excellent  ways  of  reaching 
France  that  a  list  is  quite  unnecessary.  Enter  France 
as  you  will,  you  need  have  no  fear  of  the  French 
customs.  Only  don't  carry  matches.  A  friend  of 
mine  once  paid  a  hundred  francs — a  franc  apiece — 
for  carelessly  having  a  box  in  his  trunk,  and  for- 
getting it  was  there,  in  plain  sight.  To  carry  either 
perfume  or  tobacco  is  equally  foolish ;  one  does  not 
take  coals  to  Newcastle,  and  the  government-owned 
tobacco  shops  now  sell  the  best  grades  of  foreign 
mixtures ;  while  as  for  perfumes — go  to  Grasse ! 

Before  you  go  anywhere,  always  be  sure  to  consult 
the  local  Syndicat  d'Initiative.  It  is  exactly  what 
it  claims  to  be^ — a  syndicate  to  give  you  initiative. 
Frenchmen  of  position  and  intelligence  all  over  the 
country  have  formed  a  central  association,  with  in- 
numerable branches,  often  in  the  most  out-of-the-way 
places,  for  the  express  purpose  of  helping  you  to 
understand  France  and  to  see  it  conveniently,  cheaply 
and  in   comfort.     Ask  for  the  little  free  guide  in 

[3l 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

each  place ;  learn  all  about  the  special  trips  and 
excursions  the  Syndicat  arranges ;  have  its  valuable 
assistance  in  everything.  In  a  word,  use  it,  and  you 
help  it  accomplish  its  purpose — all  without  cost  to 
yourself. 

Never  were  there  more  or  easier  means  of  trans- 
portation than  in  France.  The  whole  country  is  lit- 
erally gridironed  with  railroads ;  perhaps  I  should 
say  cobwebbed  with  them,  for  their  crossings  and 
ramifications  in  every  direction  are  as  numerous  as 
the  spinnings  of  an  industrious  spider.  Scarcely  a 
town  of  any  importance  but  is  served  by  at  least  one 
line,  sometimes  more;  and  when  you  hunt  up  some 
little  out-of-the-way  spot  you  have  unbounded  ad- 
miration for  the  geniuses  who  construct  these  Chinese 
puzzles  they  call  time-tables.  Imagine  every  railway 
line,  with  every  station  on  it,  in  the  Atlantic  coast 
States,  for  example,  in  a  single  fat  little  time-table, 
and  you  have  some  notion  of  the  comprehensiveness^ 
of  the  French  publications.  They  are  for  sale  new 
every  month  at  the  station  newsstands — the  railways 
never  give  anything  away  but  themselves. 

While  the  cost  of  travel  per  mile  on  these  railways 
— not  all  of  them  are  State  hues,  as  in  Italy — is 
high,  and  there  is  no  such  money-saving  device  as  the 
Sicilian  tessere,  there  are  so  many  kinds  of  tickets 
that  the  leanest  pocket  can  be  suited  and  the  most 
exacting  demands  as  to  itinerary  satisfied.  Baggage 
is  costly,  for  the  French  rules  allow  only  sixty-six 
pounds  free  for  checking;  but  you  may  carry  with 

[4] 


^y^y 


.'^■■'^ 


»      0     '    5    '     » 


The   Street  of   io8   Steps  in  the  Fisher- 
men's quarter  of  Boulogne-sur-Mer 


IMPRESSIONS 


you  into  the  compartment  all  you  can  manage,  to 
the  discomfiture  of  others  equally  loaded  down.  Com- 
partments occupied  by  army  officers  and  priests  seem 
to  be  shunned  by  the  French  themselves ;  so  when 
you  want  room,  look  for  gold  lace  or  shovel  hat. 
Their  wearers  are  invariably  excellent  traveling 
companions. 

It  is  the  fashion  to  ridicule  our  fellow  country- 
men who  wander  through  Europe  sipping  such  honey 
as  they  may  from  weed  and  flower  alike;  and,  to  be 
frank,  the  ridicule  is  often  richly  deserved.  But  it 
seems  to  me  that  nowadays  we  encounter  fewer  of 
the  cock-sure,  strident  brand  of  American,  and,  in- 
stead, many  more  of  those  who  know  the  difference 
between  gem  and  brummagem.  Sometimes,  too,  the 
American  affords  a  pleasing  contrast  with  the  for- 
eigner. One  day  we  entered  a  compartment  in  a 
train,  vacant  save  for  an  insignificant,  kid-gloved 
little  German  "gentleman"  who  occupied  one  window- 
seat  and  kept  his  opened  grip  on  the  one  opposite. 
When  he  changed  seats  to  avoid  sun  or  cinders,  he 
lifted  the  bag  over  to  the  place  he  vacated.  Pope 
must  have  had  some  such  experience — "How  instinct 
varies  in  the  grov'ling  swine." 

On  the  little  local  trains  the  office  of  conductor 
has  been  so  far  reduced  to  simplicity  you  rarely,  if 
ever,  know  he  is  aboard.  Tickets  are  punched  before 
you  step  out  upon  the  platform  to  take  the  train, 
and  collected  at  the  exit  from  the  station  where  you 
leave  the  line.     Between  times,  if  so  minded,  you 

[5] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

alight,  check  your  baggage  in  the  economical  corir 
signe — two  cents  a  day  for  any  piece — tell  the  good- 
natured  gatekeeper  that  you  wish  to  see  the  town  a 
little  while  before  going  on,  if  he  doesn't  mind,  show 
your  ticket,  and  off  you  go.  The  courtesy  and 
willingness  of  the  employes  is  very  distinguished,  as 
a  rule. 

The  "flowing  roads"  are  the  delight  of  automo- 
bilist,  bicyclist  and  footfarer  alike,  magnificent  tree- 
bordered  highways,  the  well-kept  children  of  a  gen- 
erous and  paternal  government,  whose  foresight  and 
ample  pocket  have  made  them  what  they  are,  the 
standard  by  which  all  other  roads  are  judged — and 
generally  found  wanting.  On  every  route  little  can- 
tonniers^  huts  contain  the  tools  with  which  the  labor- 
ers repair  the  damage  done  by  fast  automobiles, 
and  the  brooms  with  which  they  keep  the  way  clean. 
It  is  an  enlightening  sight  to  see  one  of  these  rough- 
looking  fellows,  broom  in  hand,  miles  away  from  the 
nearest  town,  calmly  sweeping  a  fifty-two-foot  high- 
way already  immaculate. 

Notwithstanding  the  number  and  size  of  the  French 
rivers,  there  is  little  opportunity  for  travel  by  boat. 
But  when  such  a  chance  does  come,  by  all  means 
take  it.  And  then  there  are  the  canals,  three  thou- 
sand miles  of  them,  with  their  huge  iron  boats  bril- 
liantly painted  and  spotlessly  clean,  tempting  you 
to  idle  away  the  halcyon  days  gliding  noiselessly  and 
slow  over  their  burnished  mirror,  between  long  rows 
of  noble  trees,  an  enormous  natural  picket  fence. 

[6] 


IMPRESSIONS 


What  a  trip  one  could  make  from  the  Mediterranean 
to  Toulouse  by  the  Canal  du  Midi,  with  its  hundred 
locks,  its  rise  of  425  feet  to  its  culminating  point, 
and  its  fall  of  two  hundred  to  the  Garonne,  or  rather 
to  the  Canal  Lateral,  which  goes  on  toward  the 
Atlantic. 

The  two  things  that  have  impressed  me  most 
about  the  Frenchman  out  of  doors  are  his  bicycle 
riding  and  his  fishing.  Every  stream  and  canal  is 
lined  with  men  and  boys,  frequently  with  women 
and  girls,  too,  line  in  hand.  Considering  the  mercu- 
rial French  temperament,  I  wondered  how  they  stayed 
in  one  place  so  long,  until  I  watched  their  method. 
Then  I  wondered  how  they  ever  caught  anything. 
The  line  is  never  still  a  minute,  but  up  and  down, 
back  and  forth,  goes  the  pole,  in  a  ceaseless  flicking 
of  the  water.  This  must  be  the  safety-valve  for  their 
temperament.  Another  thing  that  astonished  me  is 
the  size  of  the  fish  that  satisfies  them.  Many  a 
fish  have  I  seen  caught,  in  many  a  different  stream, 
but  never  one  more  than  three  or  four  inches  in 
length ! 

As  everybody  fishes,  so  everybody  rides  a  bicycle. 
But  while  the  fishermen  are  amusing,  the  riders  are 
both  annoying  and  dangerous.  They  seem  to  drop 
down  from  the  clear  sky  and  spring  up  from  the 
solid  earth,  without  the  formality  of  either  bell  or 
horn,  and  are  really  more  trying  to  watch  for  than 
the  automobiles.  Not  one  in  sight,  you  start  across 
the  street — and  jump  for  your  life  before  you  get 

[7] 


FRANCE   FROM   SEA  TO   SEA 


there!  Let  one  knock  you  and  himself  down,  and 
instead  of  apology  you  are  much  more  hkely  to  re- 
ceive anathema — for  not  looking  where  the  rider  was 
going. 

Everybody  remembers  Mark  Twain's  genial  fool- 
ing, no  doubt:  "France  has  neither  winter,  nor 
summer,  nor  morals.  Apart  from  these  drawbacks, 
it  is  a  fine  country."  It  is.  And,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  it  has  every  sort  of  climate  under  the  sun,  but 
most  of  the  varieties  are  in  the  south,  with  its  snow- 
capped mountains  and  semi-tropical  shores.  In  the 
north  the  climate  and  temperature  are  very  equable, 
soft  and  moist.  It  must  be  acknowledged  that  this 
moistness  quite  often  takes  the  form  of  decided  pre- 
cipitation— rain.  And  the  evenness  of  temperature 
makes  an  overcoat  in  August  not  so  out  of  place  as  it 
sounds.  These  conditions,  however,  account  for  the 
riot  of  verdure  and  the  greenness  of  the  country. 
The  greens  are  a  revelation,  and  give  one  a  wholly 
new  sense  of  values  in  landscapes.  Cultivation  is 
a  vital  factor  in  these  so-apparent  values,  whether 
in  farming  or  the  market  gardening  in  which  the 
French  excel.  A  large  family  not  only  can  live  well, 
but  save  money,  on  one  hectare,  about  two  and  a  half 
acres,  in  the  vicinity  of  almost  any  of  the  large  cities. 
The  most  notable  thing  in  one  of  these  gardens  is 
the  glass  cloche  or  bell,  about  eighteen  inches  high, 
and  perhaps  a  foot  in  diameter,  used  as  a  sort  of 
individual  forcing  frame.  The  queer-looking  objects 
give  one  the  uncanny  sensation  of  watching  some 

[8] 


IMPRESSIONS 


process  of  black  art  worked  by  the  earth  trolls  in 
their  ugly,  grayish  retorts. 

The  women  do  their  full  share  of  the  farming 
and  gardening,  but  don't  expect  to  find  them  all  in 
picturesque  array.  Of  costumes  there  are  compara-  *1 
tively  few  left;  the  quaint  and  ancient  dress  of  the 
Bretonnes  is  an  exception,  and  on  workdays  this 
is  sober  enough.  But  on  fete  days !  All  the  riches 
of  rainbow  and  sunset  seem  to  have  been  lavished 
on  the  women ;  and  the  men,  if  not  butterflies,  are 
at  least  moths  of  some  pretension.  I  have  also  seen*^ 
some  handsome  costumes  in  Dauphine  and  Savoie, 
while  the  dress  of  the  women  of  Aries,  though  fairly 
ascetic  in  its  severity,  is  often  considered  the  most 
charming  of  all.  But  there  are  myriad  caps — the  j 
distinguishing  mark  of  the  French  peasant  woman — 
ranging  from  tiny  bits  of  cambric  no  bigger  than 
the  palm  of  one's  hand  to  great,  full-sailed,  embroid- 
ered affairs  with  enormous  bows  and  long,  flying 
streamers.  Read  them  aright,  and  you  know  at 
once  the  wearer's  to^\^l  and  province.  And  of  one 
thing  you  may  always  be  sure:  the  cap,  of  what- 
ever location,  is  invariably  as  fresh  and  inviting  as 
though  it  had  just  come  from  the  iron  of  an  expert 
laundress. 

In  France,  the  public  fountain  plays  no  such  im- 
portant part  in  the  life  of  the  people  as  in  Spain 
and  Italy ;  instead,  the  cafe  is  the  center  of  news, 
amusement  and  gossip  for  all  classes,  ages  and  sexes. 
There  you  may  sit  Hstening  to  the  gossip  for  hours, 

[9] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

as  one  at  a  show,  while  the  harlequin,  Life,  performs 
all  about  and  before  you.  What  you  hear  and  see 
depends  upon  the  grade  of  cafe  you  patronize ;  but 
always  it  is  full  of  color,  full  of  spirit,  essentially  and 
typically  French.  Now  a  mother,  busy  with  her  fledg- 
lings, shocks  you  by  giving  her  three-year-old  sips  of 
her  aperitif,  while  the  older  children  drink  their  beer 
like  veterans ;  or  some  one  behind  you  tells  a  piquant 
story,  and  everybody  laughs ;  again,  a  statesman 
sits  down  next  to  a  dirty  salesman,  and  each  has  his 
pale  green  poison ;  newsboys,  toy  peddlers,  match- 
girls  and  beggars  thread  in  and  out  among  the  tables, 
and  the  buzz  of  friendly  conversation  is  rudely  punc- 
tuated by  their  cries  and  the  staccato  of  the  hurrying 
waiters,  whose  prodigies  of  liquid  prestidigitation 
make  you  shudder  for  your  safety.  The  street  pro- 
cession is  endless :  goats  following  clouted  pipers  with 
shrill,  miniature  calliopes ;  ladies  hobbled  in  fashion- 
able attire,  gay  hussars,  elephantine  dragons  in  glit- 
tering helmets  and  horsetail  plumes,  leather-legged 
artillerymen,  pretty  girls  with  bandboxes  they  could 
hide  in,  magnificent  tandems  of  huge  Percherons 
hauling  great  carts  ;  placid,  cream-colored  oxen  plod- 
ding on  with  loads  of  wine  or  stone,  and  right  across 
their  path  a  vegetable  cart,  pulled  by  a  panting  dog, 
a  stolid  woman,  or  by  both.  Cheap  as  ox-power  is 
in  France,  dog-power  is  cheaper  yet,  and  woman- 
power  cheapest  of  all.  Not  only  are  the  cafes  on 
the  street,  but  often  at  even  the  simplest  little  hotel 
or  restaurant  you   dine  on   the  sidewalk,  behind  a 

[10] 


IMPRESSIONS 


low  hedge  of  box  trees  in  tubs,  with  the  pleasant 
street  life  spicing  the  meal  agreeably. 

The  people  of  each  province  are  quite  as  charac- 
teristic as  its  physical  features,  and  by  rights  every 
one  should  have  its  individual  biographer  and  vol- 
ume. True,  the  old  boundaries  are  gone,  and  France 
is  divided  into  some  eighty  departemenis,  which  have 
no  significance  beyond  convenience  in  governing  them. 
But  we  still  love  to  think  of  Old  Provence,  Old  Tou- 
raine.  Old  Brittany,  Old  Normandy,  and  so  on ;  and 
the  salient  fact  remains  that  whether  a  man  be  of 
Reims  or  of  Caen,  of  Aix  or  of  Poitiers,  and  no  mat- 
ter how  patriotic  he  may  be,  he  is  even  yet  under  his 
mask  of  Frenchness  a  Champenois  or  a  Norman,  a 
Proven9al  or  a  Poitevin,  proud  of  the  ancient  prov- 
ince whose  child  he  is. 

Even  more  engaging  than  the  folk  of  to-day  are 
the  historic  figures  of  other  centur.ies,  whose  names 
are  on  every  tongue,  who  give  rich  suggestion  to 
La  Belle  France.  She  is  the  very  heart  and  center 
of  gracious  legend  and  fable,  of  moving  song  and 
music.  Troubadour  ballads  lilt  from  crag  to  crag 
among  the  mountain  castles  of  Provence;  ghosts  of 
dead  lords  and  ladies  haunt  the  chateaux  of  Touraine, 
whose  blood-stained  walls  harbor  many  a  wild  and 
eerie  tale;  Abelard  and  Bluebeard,  Ste.  Genevieve 
and  Joan  of  Arc,  historic  figures  all,  but  enmeshed 
in  a  mass  of  fable,  stir  the  imagination  to-day  as 
they  did  of  old;  kings  and  commoners,  saints  and 
sinners,  fiends  and  fatiries,  weave  about  all  France 

[II] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

a  language  of  mystery  and  the  supernatural  so  rich, 
so  varied  and  inexhaustible  that  no  Frenchman  even 
has  fathomed  its  depths. 

There  is  something  for  every  oile  in  France — sci- 
entist, holidfay-maker,  student,  whatever  or  whoever 
he  may  be.  Megalithic  monuments  mark  the  graves 
of  a  vanished  people ;  great  arenas,  crumbling  arches, 
aqueducts  and  walls  breathe  the  spirit  of  Imperial 
Rome.;  architecture,  the  natural  outgrowth  of  Nature 
and  man's  needs,  dots  every  province  with  princely 
palaces  and  princely  temples  to  the  faith;  cities  and 
villages  almost  impossibly  lovely  relieve  the  charm 
of  the  landscape  with  sculptured  abruptness  and  effi- 
cacy. Throughout  this  country,  so  fertile  in  sugges- 
tion, so  boundlessly  rich  in  history  that  wakes  the 
coolest  blood  to  riot,  the  thoughtful  traveler  stands 
in  speechless  admiration,  or  murmurs,  as  did  the  Latin 
of  eld:  ^'Siste,  viator,  circumspice,^* 


[12] 


II 


'the   golden    sands   of   picardy" 


BY  all  means  the  happiest  way  I  know  to  enter 
France  is  by  that  picturesque  old  fortress- 
seaport,  Boulogne-sur-Mer,  with  its  sur- 
roundings an  English  playground,  stretching  back 
from  the  "golden  -sands"  and  emerald  sea  up  the 
c^ialk  cliffs  of  ancient  Picardy.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  you  enter  France  through  Cherbourg  and  Nor- 
mandy, practically  all  your  fellow  passengers,  and 
other  continual  arrivals,  are  in  a  tremendous  hurry 
for  a  sight  of  the  grands  boulevards  of  Paris,  and 
the  unrest  of  their  haste  poisons  your  enjoyment. 
But  at  Boulogne  you  find  so  many  genial  idlers,  all 
happily  busy  playing,  or  doing  nothing,  that  it  im- 
mediately knocks  the  insidious  little  speed  devil  off 
your  shoulder,  and  helps  you  to  loiter  gracefully 
yourself. 

Indeed,  a  whole  summer  could  be  spent  in  and 
about  Boulogne  without  a  single  dull  or  wasted  day, 
so  full  of  beauty  and  interest  are  the  city  and  its 
lovely  environs.  Either  from  the  sea  or  from  the 
cliffs  above,  the  town  and  its  harbor  are  most  strik- 
ing ;  seen  from  the  steamer,  Boulogne  is  the  most  at- 

[13] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 


tractive  port  in  northern  France.  The  cliffs  that  rise 
mistily  in  the  distance  at  first  sight  slowly  brighten 
into  distinct  shapes  as  you  approach  the  enormous 
harbor  works,  with  their  basins  for  commerce  and 
docking,  their  breakwaters  and  lighthouses.  To  the 
left  rises  the  great  white  shape  of  the  Casino ;  nearby, 
fashionable  hostelries,  with  pretentious  names  and 
elaborate  arrangements  for  comfort ;  and  a  trim  little 
waterside  park,  whose  flowers  make  a  pleasing  con- 
trast with*  the  green  of  the  sea  and  the  gold  of  the 
sands.  Beyond,  and  inward,  stretches  the  town,  on 
the  east  bank  of  the  river  Liane;  on  the  west  bank 
more  town,  with  the  great  railroad  stations  and 
freight  yards,  hotels,  warehouses,  all  the  usual  and 
famihar  sights  of  a  waterfront.  Ambitious  trolley- 
cars  bustle  hither  and  yon,  so  many  ants  full  of 
industry  and  endeavor.  Up  the  hills  climbs  the  older 
city,  until  the  square  and  massive  Boulogne  of  old 
times  is  seen,  or  rather  imagined,  nestling  secure 
within  the  thirteenth  century  walls  no  vandal  has  yet 
torn  down  in  the  name  of  Progress.  Above  them 
rise  the  dome  of  the  Cathedral,  the  belfry,  the  roofs 
of  the  chateau ;  and,  away  off  to  one  side,  Napoleon's 
crowning  piece  of  egotism,  the  towering  column  to 
mark  his  "invasion"  of  England. 

But  it  is  the  port  and  the  waterfront  that  claim 
our  attention  first:  a  tangle  of  masts  and  rigging 
along  the  quays ;  steamers  coming  and  going,  paint- 
ing the  soft  gray  of  the  northern  sky  a  sooty  black ; 
pilot-boa-ts,   with   ochered   sails    and   huge,   painted 

[i4l 


GOLDEN    SANDS    OF   PICARDY 


numbers,  breezing  in  or  out;  a  great  liner  like  our 
own  idling  at  anchor  in  the  farther  bay;  on  the 
shore,  swart  fishermen  and  quaintly  bonneted  fisher- 
women  working  about  the  boats ;  the  pleasant  aroma 
of  tar  and  pitch  and  fresh  fish,  of  the  vivifying  ozone 
of  the  sea.  English  and  German,  and  even  Spanish, 
mingle  with  the  harsh  Picard  patois  and  with  French 
in  your  ears.  The  port  is  a  hive,  busy  and  buzzing, 
thoroughly  cosmopolitan  and  alive.  It  is,  in  fact, 
the  fourth  in  importance  among  the  seaports  of 
all  France,  and  is  almost  pre-eminent  as  a  focus  of 
both  passenger  and  commercial  intercourse  with  the 
white  cliffs  of  Albion.  Since  the  peace  of  1815  the 
enemies  of  centuries  have  become  fast  friends,  and 
so  many  Englishmen  have  made  their  permanent 
residence  in  Boulogne  that  one  citizen  in  every  fifty 
is  a  Briton ;  and  on  the  beach,  in  summer,  it  looks 
as  though  the  proportions  were  reversed. 

Just  back  of  the  quays  is  the  fishmarket,  and  in 
the  early  morning,  when  the  fishing  boats  land  their 
scaly  cargoes,  it  is  well  worth  a  visit  for  any  one 
who  does  not  mind  the  absence  of  violets  and  the 
presence  of  dripping  floors  and  baskets.  Public 
auctioneers  quickly  dispose  of  the  fish  in  wholesale 
lots.  Then  some  of  these  large  lots  are  divided 
up  among  the  retailers,  many  of  them  women,  who 
sell  by  the  piece  or  the  pound.  The  market  is  bedlam 
while  the  large  lots  are  being  sold.  Auctioneers 
"bark,"  buyers  shout  back,  rushing  factors  plunge 
to  and  fra  with  huge,  dripping  baskets.     You  must 

[  15  ] 


FRANCE    FROM   SEA   TO    SEA 

keep  your  wits  about  jou,  lest  you  meet  disaster  at 
hasty  hands  which  forget  that  perhaps  your  clothes 
are  not  improved  by  being  fishy. 

The  Boulonnais  fishermen  form  a  community  wholly 
apart  from  the  rest  of  the  people.  They  live  in 
their  own  quarter,  La  Beurriere,  dress — in  part,  at 
least — in  their  ancient  costumes,  talk  mostly  the 
Picard  patois,  flavored  with  special  words,  and  have 
their  own  distinct  customs  and  habits.  Some  of  the 
streets  leading  up  through  their  quarter  remind  one 
of  Lord  Byron's  famous  anathema  on  Malta : 

"Adieu,  ye  cursed  streets  of  stairs, 
How  every  one  who  mounts  ye  swears!" 

But  as  in  Malta,  foreigners  need  not  walk  up ;  they 
can  drive  comfortably  around  behind. 

French  thrift  and  French  industry  have  no  finer 
exponents  than  these  fisherfolk.  There  are  no  idlers 
here.  The  grandmothers  do  their  part,  as  well  as 
the  strong  and  hearty,  mending  nets  beside  the  doors. 
There  is  neither  bitterness  nor  tragedy  in  their  with- 
ered old  faces,  no  trace  of  the  heritage  of  all  that 
follow  the  fortunes  of  the  "toilers  of  the  sea."  There 
is  humor,  kindliness,  placid  old  age.  Bravely  they 
have  weathered  all  their  storms,  and  come  so  close 
to  port  that  they  have  ceased  to  feel  the  mortal 
pang  that  wounds  younger  hearts.  Some  of  the 
girls  of  the  people  are  very  pretty,  and  the  quaint 
Boulonnaise  cap  adds  a  coquettish  halo  to  the  comely 
faces.     But  study  the  faces  a  little,  and  you  can 

[i6] 


**GOLDEN    SANDS    OF   PICARDY'* 

read  in  every  line  the  tragedy  of  the  sea,  despite 
the  smiling  eyes  and  curving  lips.  It  speaks  well 
for  the  character  of  the  sturdy  Picard  fisherfolk 
that  instead  of  being  dour  and  sad,  they  live  with 
spirit,  and  enjoy  a  smile  while  they  may. 

High  on  the  cliff  above  the  jetties  stands  a  memo- 
rial chapel  of  lost  fishermen,  with  a  great  crucifix 
beside  the  door  in  its  walled  yard.  The  men's  last 
reverential  glance  as  they  go  out  rises  to  this  image 
in  which  they  have  such  simple,  childlike  faith;  their 
first  greeting  to  the  shore  on  their  safe  return  salutes 
it.  The  grim  gray  walls  burn  warm  with  the  love 
and  devotion  of  the  whole  fishing  population.  The 
chapel  interior  is  covered  with  sad  little  memorial 
tablets.  "Lost  at  sea,"  father  and  sons ;  grandsire 
and  stripling  as  well  as  hearty  manhood.  Often  a 
whole  family  gone  at  one  blow  in  the  black  cold  and 
storm.  And  the  trembling  women  come  here  to  pray 
and  to  weep  and  to  remember — 

"For  men  must  work  and  women  must  weep, 
And  the  sooner  it's  over  the  sooner  to  sleep. 
And  goodbye  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning." 

Directly  below  is  the  other  side  of  life,  the  lavishly 
splendid  Casino,  which  includes  the  usual  brilliant 
gaming-rooms,  grand  salon,  theater  seating  over  a 
thousand,  gorgeous  plate-glass  restaurant  in  the 
Moorish  style,  great  concert  hall,  and  every  con- 
venience and  luxury.  On  the  water  side  a  beautiful 
semi-circular    esplanade    commands    an    entrancing 

I17] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

prospect  of  the  town  and  harbor,  while  on  clear  nights 
the  lights  of  the  dreaded  South  Foreland  Shoals, 
across  the  Channel,  wink  on  the  horizon.  Extensive 
gardens  not  only  surround  the  Casino,  but  run  along 
the  Boulevard  Ste.  Beuve,  making  this  whole  sec- 
tion a  huge  floral  promenade.  And  the  sands  them- 
selves— the  sands  all  along  the  coast  of  Picardy,  in 
fact — are  really  golden,  fine  and  clean  and  shining, 
not  the  messy  gray  mixture  of  mud  and  sand  and 
gravel  that  composes  so  many  beaches.  Bathing  is 
the  first  sport  at  Boulogne,  and  during  the  morning 
the  whole  beach  is  a  gay  kaleidoscope  of  life  and 
color ;  when  the  w^ater  is  too  rough  for  swimming  the 
great  plunge  baths  or  swimming-pools  are  available. 

The  Basse  Ville,  or  Low  Town,  is  neither  all  waterr 
front  nor  all  Casino.  It  is  an  ordinary  French  com- 
mercial city,  with  some  good  stores  and  innumerable 
others,  and  a  general  air  of  being  too  much  occupied 
to  take  very  good  care  of  its  appearance.  The 
Place  Dalton  is  the  marketing  center,  an  oblong 
square  flanked  by  stores  and  houses  on  one  side,  by 
the  church  of  St.  Nicholas  on  the  other,  with  the 
market  stalls  right  under  the  windows  of  the  sacred 
edifice.  The  early  morning  scene  is  almost  as  lively 
as  in  the  fishmarket.  Standing  here  one  day,  gazing 
about  in  some  perplexity,  we  were  accosted  in  familiar 
speech: 

"Was  you  lookin'  for  anythink.?"  asked  the  voice. 

It  belonged  to  a  ruddy,  buxom  old  woman,  in  a 
bonnet  and  shawl  as  clearly  British  as  she  seemed 

[i81 


*'GOLDEN   SANDS   OF   PICARDY" 

to  be,  and  as  friendly  a  soul  as  one  could  meet. 
"  'Cause  if  you  was,"  she  went  on,  smiling,  "I  c'd 
prob'ly  tell  j^ou." 

She  was  a  beneficent  if  a  garrulous  old  fairy,  and 
gave  the  drab  street  a  life  and  color  we  had  been 
too  blind  to  see  until  she  took  us  in  tow  and  escorted 
us  to  the  shop  we  sought.  To  repay  her  friendliness 
I  asked:    "Have  you  been  here  long,  madam?" 

That  was  the  opportunity  she  had  waited  for. 
Down  went  the  flood-gates  with  a  crash,  and  out 
poured  a  vivid  story  of  her  colorless  hfe,  her  friends, 
relatives,  husbands  and  children,  past  and  present — 
everything!  But,  alas!  for  not  taking  notes  right 
there !  All  that  stuck  fast  in  memory  is  her  opening 
phrase:    "Been  here  long!     Why,  I'm  French!" 

On  up  the  Grande  Rue  from  the  Place  Dalton  we 
come  to  the  High  Town,  the  ancient  walled  city, 
approximately  a  square  with  four  round-tower  gate- 
ways, and  in  one  corner  the  fortified  chateau,  the 
later  residence  of  the  Counts  of  Boulogne,  where, 
in  1840,  Louis  Napoleon's  fiasco  ended  with  his  im- 
prisonment. Around  the  walls  runs  a  pleasant, 
garden-like  boulevard,  and  on  one  side  ample  play- 
grounds and  tennis  courts.  The  thirteenth  century 
walls  themselves,  once  they  became  useless  as  fortifi- 
cations, were  laid  out  as  a  promenade,  with  two  rows 
of  splendid  elms,  and  are  now  as  picturesque  a  walk 
under  arching  limbs  as  one  could  wish.  Many  a 
distinguished  character  has  strolled  along  here,  above 
the  old  brown  town  and  the  gray  sea — Dickens  and 

[i9l 


FRANCE   FROM   SEA  TO   SEA 

Thackeray,  the  poets  Rossetti  and  Campbell,  and 
many  another  to  whom  the  scene  meant  much.  No 
such  illustrious  company  did  I  find  when  I  strolled 
along  under  the  elms,  taking  pictures  in  a  chilly  driz- 
zle ;  for  there  are  chilly  drizzles  here,  despite  the 
records,  which  say  Boulogne  has  fifty-five  more  sunny 
days  a  year  than  Brittany.  My  promenaders  were 
two  young  beggar  girls,  who  thrust  in  front  of  the 
camera  when  they  could,  and  made  caustic  remarks 
about  foreigners  when  they  couldn't. 

Within  the  ramparts,  narrow  old  streets  breathe 
an  atmosphere  of  shut-inness  and  medievalism  quite 
compatible  with  the  solid  walls  and  useless  fortified 
gates.  The  Hotel  de  Ville  and  belfry  occupy  part 
of  the  site  of  the  ancient  palace  of  the  Counts,  in 
which  Godef roy  de  Bouillon,  the  crusader,  and  later 
King  of  Jerusalem,  was  born,  in  1066.  It  was  the 
Countess  Ida  de  Bouillon,  mother  of  Godefroy,  who 
built  the  first  Cathedral  here.  The  present  structure, 
the  most  prominent  feature  of  the  old  walled  city, 
was  built  since  the  Revolution,  by  the  herculean 
exertions  of  one  man,  the  pious  Abbe  Haffrein- 
gue,  who  was  his  own  architect  and  superintendent 
of  works.  That  the  good  Abbe's  devotion  and 
courage  exceeded  his  artistic  judgment  is  plainly 
evident. 

Outside  the  Calais  Gate,  to  the  northeast,  is  a 
commonplace  district  with  the  picturesque  title  of 
the  Dernier  Sou,  its  name  the  relic  of  an  almost 
forgotten  story.     Every  one  I  asked  about  it  said 

[20] 


"GOLDEN    SANDS    OF   PICARDY" 

immediately:      "Mcds   oui.   Monsieur;    certainement. 

Er — ah "     And  that  is  the  true  story  of  the 

Last  Penny,  as  Boulogne  tells  it  to-day. 

It  is  a  pleasant  drive  on  out  to  that  monument 
to  Napoleon's  egotism,  the  150-foot  Colonne  Napo-  ^ 
leone,  on  the  lofty  ground  back  from  the  shore,  and  - 
a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  city.  From  its  geo- 
graphical position,  Picardy  was  naturally  the  favor- 
ite rendezvous  of  the  French  for  intended  expeditions 
against  their  traditional  enemy,  England.  The  last 
of  these  invasions,  that  never  eventuated,  was  planned 
by  Napoleon.  From  1801  to  1804  he  gathered  a 
great  army  of  nearly  200,000  men  along  the  Picard 
coast.  Nor  did  his  assurance  end  there.  He  had 
coins  struck  to  pay  off  his  soldiers  when  the  British 
capital  had  fallen — every  one  bore  the  inscription: 
Coined  in  London!  While  he  waited  for  ships, 
Trafalgar  was  lost,  and  he  could  complete  neither 
expedition  nor  monument.  The  shaft  was  continued 
by  Louis  XVIII  as  a  memorial  to  the  Bourbon  Res- 
toration, but  completed  finally  as  it  had  been  begun, 
in  honor  of  the  first  Emperor. 

Napoleon  had  a  keen  valuation  of  the  claptrap  \  1 
that  catches  the  mob.  When  he  made  the  first  dis- 
tribution of  the  decorations  of  his  new  Order  of  the 
Legion  d'Honneur  he  had  priceless  treasures  brought 
from  Paris  for  the  ceremony — the  chair  of  the  great 
Merovingian  King  Dagobert  he  used  as  a  throne; 
the  helmet  of  the  thirteenth  century  Constable  Ber- 
trand  du  Guesclin  and  the  shield  of  that  sixteenth 

[21] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

century  chevalier  sans  peur  et  sans  reprochef  Bayard, 
as  trays  for  the  medals. 

Out  in  the  same  direction  is  one  of  the  most  pleas- 
ant of  the  innumerable  excursions  from  Boulogne 
to  near-by  resorts,  the  run  by  trolley  or  carriage, 
or  even  on  foot,  to  the  delightful  little  town  of 
Wimereux,  only  a  short  three  miles  distant,  catching 
vista  after  vista  of  the  shimmering  sands,  silver 
sickles  in  the  emerald  field  of  water,  as  you  go.  In- 
deed, it  is  the  beach  that  has  made  Wimereux,  even 
more  than  Boulogne,  a  paradise  playground,  the 
homiest  of  summering  places  in  France,  where  chil- 
dren of  all  ages  disport  themselves  upon  one  of  the 
widest  and  cleanest  beaches  I  ever  saw.  The  young- 
sters who  fly  their  kites,  build  sand  castles  and  paddle 
about  in  the  beach  pools,  are  most  of  them  as  British 
as  the  staid  matrons  reading  in  the  tiny  striped  tents 
that  give  a  dash  of  brilliant  color  to  the  scene. 

Naturally,  with  so  many  true  Britons  in  town, 
Wimereux  is  full  of  tea  rooms — ^big  and  little,  fine 
and  shabby,  suited  to  every  sort  of  pocket.  One 
afternoon  we  spent  a  pleasant  hour  in  a  great,  square, 
glass-fronted  room  facing  on  two  streets,  with  win- 
dows full  of  the  most  appetizing  plum  cakes  and 
candy,  English  preserves  and  fancy  fruits.  Three 
hungry  little  tatterdemalions,  shivering  in  the  stiff 
breeze,  flattened  their  noses  against  the  glass  as  we 
came  out.  Their  very  ears  worked  as  they  sniffed 
and  wished.  I  meant  to  give  them  some  pennies, 
but  preferred  to  photograph  them  while  they  were 

[22] 


"GOLDEN    SANDS    OF    PICARDY" 

unconscious  of  observation.  Just  as  I  swung  the 
camera  into  position,  hqwever,  a  charming  young 
Englishman,  as  unconscious  as  the  boys  themselves, 
stepped  outside,  both  hands  full  of  cakes,  and  came 
to  them,  completing  the  picture. 

About  the  same  distance  from  Boulogne,  in  the 
opposite  direction,  is  the  fishing  town  of  Le  Portel, 
a  quaint  jumble  of  houses  crowded  together  upon 
narrow  streets  between  high  crags,  and  preserving 
an  exceedingly  ancient  aspect.  The  broad,  flat  beach 
runs  to  the  foot  of  the  cliffs,  where,  on  a  wide, 
cobble-stoned,  careening  place,  the  fishing  boats  are 
hauled  up,  the  bathing  tents  placed,  and  the  news  of 
the  day.  peddled  by  kindly  gossips. 

Portel  is  the  resort  of  the  middle-class  Parisian, 
w^ho  welcomes  its  informality  and  low  prices.  But 
after  mass  of  a  Sunday  morning,  in  the  great  square 
before  the  simple  Romanesque  church,  you  lose  sight 
entirely  of  Parisian  or  foreigner,  of  fashionable  dress 
or  head  covering,  for  the  Porteloise,  gowned  in  sober 
black,  and  capped  with  white  haloes,  blind  you  to 
everything  else.  They  are  very  proud  of  this  big 
churchr  of  theirs,  for  they  say  the  s.turdy  women 
themselves  carried  the  stones  and  s>and  up  from  the 
beach  to  build  it.  One  morning  we  watched  half  a 
dozen  w^omen — ^bareheaded,  in  the  rain — pass  up  and 
down,  again  and  again,  carrying  loads  of  sand  so 
heavy  they  had  tO'  have  help  to  hoist  the  baskets 
upon  their  capable  backs.  I  don't  know  what  they 
were  building  this  time.     Of  all  the  human  beasts 

[23] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 


of  burden  we  saw  in  Portel,  only  one  was  a  man,  and 
he  was  delivering  groceries. 

Close  as  Portel  is  to  Boulogne,  with  its  cosmo- 
politan crowds — only  three  and  a  half  miles  distant — 
many  of  the  ceremonies  of  old  still  endure,  one  the 
annual  Blessing  of  the  Sea.  What  a  procession ! — 
virgin  priestesses  of  the  arch-siren  who  draws  men 
to  her  capacious  bosom ;  priests  conscious  of  their 
mission,  filled  with  the  simple,  mystic  faith  of  their 
fellows ;  the  following  crowd,  silent,  reverent ;  the 
onlookers — kin  and  stranger  from  every  land  the 
ocean  sweeps.  And  no  mere  words  of  mine  can  paint 
the  pathetic  devotion  of  these  children  of  Nature  and 
of  God,  the  outpouring  of  their  ecstatic  temperament. 

A  little  farther  south,  reached  only  afoot  or  by 
carriage,  is  a  still  quainter  place,  the  little  fishing 
hamlet  of  Equihen,  a  favorite  resort  of  artists  in 
search  of  genre  subjects.  There,  among  the  sand 
dunes,  bristling  with  spiky  salt  grass,  are  the  most 
astonishing  houses  imaginable.  Fishing-boats,  turned 
upside  down,  are  reared  on  plank  walls,  and  each  one 
contains  a  good-sized  family. 

And  this  is  only  a  glimpse ;  both  north  and  south 
runs  the  picturesque  procession  of  these  resorts,  jew- 
eled beads  in  the  sandy  chain,  brilliant  spots  where 
the  work-a-day  world  is  forgotten,  and  all  the  world 
plays  with  the  abandon  of  happy  children  upon  an 
endless  holiday. 


[24l 


Ill 


ABBEVILLE    AND     NEAR     BY 

INLAND,  by  both  the  railroad  and  every  high- 
road, are  spots  the  traveler  ought  not  to 
miss.  But  if,  perchance,  you  cannot  visit 
all,  or  some,  or  even  any  of  them,  and  take  the  main 
line  of  the  railroad,  you  must  stop  v.hen  you  come 
to  Abbeville — Abvi,  the  French  pronounce  it. 

On  our  first  stroll  through  its-  streets  we  were 
struck  almost  dumb  by  something  in  the  show  window 
of  a  rather  mean  and  dirty  little  shop.  Could  it  he? 
we  asked  one  another,  scarce  able  to  credit  our  eyes. 
After  some  hesitation  I  went  in  and  bought  one. 
It  was — it  really  was — apple  pie !  Not  "like  mother 
used  to  make,"  to  be  sure,  but  still  real  apple  pie, 
for  all  the  Frenchwoman  insisted  that  it  was  only 
a  "tart-to-the-apples."  And  as  Abbeville  was  the 
only  place  in  all  France  where  we  ever  found  an 
apple  pie,  all  honor  to  the  ingenious  town ! 

The  prodigious  number  of  pastry  shops  in  France 
makes  you  wonder  if  there  is  any  other  land  where 
the  people  eat  so  much  patisserie.  And  what  about 
the  fabled  economy  of  the  French  in  food.^^  It  is 
very  hard  to  reconcile  the  stories  with  their  constant 

[25] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

patronage  of  these  shops,  where  the  prices  rival  those 
of  New  York.  They  are  full  of  men,  women  and 
children,  sometimes  carrying  things  home,  quite  as 
often  eating  as  they  prowl  about,  teaspoon  and  plate 
in  hand,  under  the  hawkeye  of  the  proprietress.  Per- 
haps the  explanation  is  simple:  the  heavy,  cloying 
sweets  may  ruin  appetites  for  wholesome  meats  and 
vegetables. 

The  innumerable  pasty-faced  children  in  France 
would  indicate  this,  though  we  did  find  many  a  lovely, 
healthy  youngster  throughout  Picardy  and  in  some 
other  provinces.  One  other  morning  here  in  Abbe- 
ville we  passed  little  Mademoiselle  Bignon,  sitting 
smiling,  in  the  door  of  her  father's  shop.  She  had  a 
tiny  broom  in  her  hand,  so  I  asked  if  she  were  clean- 
ing the  street,  something  often  done  by  the  women 
and  children.  Looking  up  at  me  with  amusement  in 
her  big  blue  eyes,  the  little  thing  answered  gravely: 
"Non,  Monsieur,  I  am  not  obliged  to.  My  papa  can 
pay  for  that !" 

From  the  looks  of  the  street,  we  judged  papa's 
pocketbook  had  suffered  no  very  severe  inroads. 

The  late  flamboyant  Gothic  style,  well  called  by 
Dr.  Luebke  "a  gorgeously  rich  aftergrowth  of  the 
Gothic,"  has  a  striking  manifestation  in  the  great 
L/  church  of  St.  Wulfran,  whose  square  towers  rise  high 
above  the  roofs  of  the  town.  Yet,  for  all  its  richness 
and  fancy,  its  playful,  flamelike  superficial  decora- 
tion, the  general  eff'ect  is  lifeless.     The  sculptured 

figures  on  the  fa9ade,  for  the  most  part,  are  like- 

[26] 


ABBEVILLE   AND   NEARBY 

nesses  of  the  patrons  of  various  industrial  guilds  of 
the  old  days  when  there  were  no  such  things  as  labor- 
ing hours ;  when  the  burghers  were  awakened  by 
the  nasal  chanting  of  apprentice  and  journeyman 
alike,  singing  their  way  through  the  dawn  to  their 
tasks. 

Usually,  the  choirs  of  these  old-time  churches  were 
built  first — was  it  not  meet  that  the  sacred  precinct 
be  raised  to  house  the  Divine  Presence  before  wor- 
shiping mankind  be  sheltered?  But  here  the  oppo- 
site course  was  taken,  and  the  splendid  nave  begun 
toward  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century.  In  the 
seventeenth  the  choir  was  finished  on  a  distinctly 
smaller  and  inferior  scale — the  Deity  has  been  stead- 
ily losing  importance  with  the  French  nation  for 
many  long  anfd  trying  years — making  a  combination 
even  queerer  and  more  apparent  inside  than  out. 
Yet  there  is  plenty  of  real  beauty  to  St.  Wulfran, 
if  you  look  for  it  with  a  discerning  eye. 

Another  attractive  church  is  St.  Gilles,  contempo- 
rary with  the  greater  one;  but  the  most  interesting 
by  far,  historically,  is  little  St.  Sepulcre,  which  com- 
memorates the  gathering  here,  in  August,  1096,  of 
the  First  Crusade.  A  Picard  devotee,  Peter  the 
Hermit  of  Amiens,  preached  it,  stirring  all  Christian 
Europe  to  the  point  of  rescuing  the  Holy  Sepulcher 
from  the  Mohammedans,  who  had  polluted  it.  Many 
a  valiant  Picard  of  high  and  low  degree  was  in  that 
mighty  concourse,  and  Count  Guy  de  Ponthieu,  too 
ill  to  go  himself,  built  the  original  St.  Sepulcre  on 

[27] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

the  foundations  of  the  barracks  the  crusaders  used. 
To-day  you  see  a  reconstruction  of  that  edifice. 

For  all  she  is  only  a  great  textile  center  to-day, 
Abbeville  has  always  been  a  fighting  town.  "Our 
ancestors  were  not  merely  fat  and  timid  bourgeois," 
says  Ledieu,  the  local  historian.  "They  lived  cease- 
lessly in  their  war  harness.  .  .  ."  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  Abbeville  militia,  composed  of  shopkeepers 
and  other  townsfolk,  rivaled  the  knights  in  sheer 
bravery  on  many  a  bloody  field.  A  spirited  bronze 
bas-relief  on  the  walls  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  or  Town 
Hall,  recalls  the  heroism  of  a  rich  and  influential 
bourgeois  named  Ringois,  who  preferred  death — he 
was  manacled,  and  hurled  from  the  parapet  of  Dover 
Castle  into  the  sea — to  recognizing  Edward  III  of 
England  and  urging  submission  upon  his  fellow 
townsmen. 

The  great  belfry  standing  beside  the  Hotel  de 
Ville  is  one  of  many  which  make  a  prominent  feature 
of  Picardy.  Their  bells,  in  many  cases,  are  both 
famous  and  melodious,  and  a  monkish  writer  of  the 
seventeenth  century  tells  us  each  bell  was  accorded 
a  soul,  personified  by  baptism.  They  used  to  sound 
the  wild  alarms  that  sent  the  medieval  bourgeois 
scurrying  out  from  behind  his  counter  into  his  shell 
of  leathern  j  erkin  or  steel  j  acket.  And  to-day  ?  To- 
day the  old  bells  mark  the  time,  and  sometimes  warn 
idle  youth  from  the  streets  at  a  seemly  hour. 

Certainly  if  the  bells  were  accorded  souls,  the 
streets  must  have  them,  to  judge  from  their  names, 

[28] 


ABBEVILLE    AND    NEARBY 


their  narrow  picturesqueness,  and  the  curious  houses 
that  fill  them:  the  Street-of-the-Savage,  the  Street- 
of-the-Saintes-Maries,  the  Street-to-the-He-lVIules, 
and  so  on.  Most  of  the  houses  date  from  the  six- 
teenth century,  and  one  of  them,  the  "House  of 
Francis  I,"  is  so  named  because  that  merry  monarch 
is  fabled  to  have  lodged  there  one  night.  At  No.  7, 
in  the  Street-of-the-Bridge-for-the-Wheelbarrows,  is 
an  excellent  specimen  of  this  sixteenth  century  con- 
struction, delicately  carved,  with  corbels  and  mold- 
ings that  vie  with  the  projecting  heads  and  figures 
which  give  the  house  its  distinction.  In  those  days 
some  distinction  was  necessary — houses  were  not  num- 
bered. Instead,  each  one  had  some  peculiarly  carved 
or  painted  device  that  any  passerby  could  easily  rec- 
ognize and  remember.  For  example,  there  were  the 
Three-Moors,  which  recalled  the  Crusades  ;  the  Green- 
Bellows,  the  Cat-that-Plays-Ball,  and  others  equally 
strange. 

On  the  way  from  the  station  to  the  center  of  the 
town  is  one,  overhanging  the  river,  which  would  un- 
doubtedly have  been  called  L'Homme~Qui-Peche,  The- 
Man-That-Fishes,  from  the  persistence  with  which 
the  proprietor — or  perhaps  it  may  have  been  the 
chef  de  cuisine — of  the  restaurant  fished  from  the 
dining-room  window.  Was  fish  the  main  item  on 
his  menu.'^  we  wondered;  but  somehow  we  never  ven- 
tured in  to  find  out. 

There  is  no  counting  on  markets  in  France.    Quite 
often  they  end  about  the  time  you  finish  breakfast, 

[29] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

and  sometimes  they  begin  about  the  time  you  are 
ready  to  begin  luncheon.  Here  in  Abbeville  we  saun- 
tered over  to  the  market  square  about  eight  o'clock 
one  morning,  expecting  to  find  things  in  full  swing. 
It  was  nine,  however,  before  the  first  comers  began 
languidly  to  put  up  their  booths  and  tents.  As  we 
had  arranged  for  the  drive  out  of  town,  up  Mont 
Caubert,  we  did  not  stay  to  see  the  market  folk 
assemble;  but  we  did  meet  many  of  them  coming 
down  the  steep  hill  road.  The  more  pretentious 
families  ride  in  covered  carts  a  good  deal  like  minia- 
ture prairie  schooners  on  two  wheels,  and  scarcely 
less  capacious.  Behind  and  under  the  passengers 
the  load  of  produce  stowed  away  is  little  short  of 
amazing.  The  drivers  usually  lead  their  horses  down 
the  hill,  and  one  ancient  dame  in  particular  disproved 
to  us  the  Osier  theories.  She  must  have  been  at  least 
seventy,  yet  she  led  old  Dobbin  on  foot  while  her 
daughter  and  granddaughter,  in  elegant  attire,  rode 
in  state,  and  instead  of  being  wrathy,  seemed  very 
much  pleased  to  have  their  collective  picture  taken. 

Two  dogs  and  a  man  were  managing  another  heavy 
cart  on  the  steep  grade.  In  many  places  in  France 
the  dog  is  still  used  as  a  draft  animal,  though  the 
government  is  taking  steps  to  have  this  stopped.  I 
have  seen  the  poor  beasts  helping,  or  unassisted 
hauling  some  very  heavy  loads,  but  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  I  have  never  seen  one  actually  abused. 
The  thing  that  struck  me  as  particularly  sad  is 
that  they  are  totally  unresponsive  to  friendliness  or 

[30] 


ABBEVILLE    AND    NEARBY 

commiseration  from  strangers.  They  do  not  recog- 
nize the  universal  language  of  sympathy  between 
humans  and  animals,  but  remain  perfectly  stolid. 

It  was  on  the  broad,  high  plateau  of  Mont  Caubert 
that  Caesar  established  an  immense  camp  for  fourteen  i^ 
legions  in  57  B.C.  All  that  recalls  it  to-day  is  part 
of  the  agger,  or  mound,  of  its  intrenchments,  yet 
the  drive  is  well  worth  taking,  not  only  for  the  views 
on  the  road  up,  but  also  for  the  inspiring  panorama 
from  the  height  itself  over  the  broad,  flat  plain  below, 
with  the  shining  coils  of  the  River  Somme  winding 
through  the  trees  for  miles  until  it  vanishes  on  the 
misty  horizons  to  right  and  left.  And  coming  back, 
along  the  river  and  the  banks  of  the  Transit  Canal, 
is  many  a  beautiful  scene.  Although  Abbeville  is 
about  fourteen  miles  from  the  coast,  in  the  sixteenth 
century  it  was  an  important  seaport,  and  built  so 
many  ships  that  the  forests  were  all  being  cut  down 
for  timbers.  Wood  became  so  scarce  that  there  was 
not  enough  to  repair  the  houses,  many  of  which  fell 
into  ruins.  This  so  alarmed  the  local  magistrates 
that  they  forbade  the  construction  of  boats  bigger 
than  thirty-six  tons,  though  craft  of  from  seventy 
to  a  hundred  had  been  building.  Nowadays,  however, 
the  long  docks  beside  the  river  are  silent  and  de- 
serted. Instead,  the  road  to  the  railroad  station  is 
deep-rutted  with  the  merchandise  of  many  inventions. 

About  fifteen  miles  from  Abbeville,  the  battlefield 
of  Crecy  is  as  easy  to  reach  as  it  seems  hard.  In 
the  first  place,  the  ticket  you  buy  does  not  bear  the 

[31] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

name  the  guidebooks  give,  and  that  is  sufficiently  dis- 
quieting. You  think  you  want  to  go  to  Crecy-en- 
Ponthieu,  and  your  ticket  reads  clearly  enough  Crecy- 
le-Foret.  That  the  grimy  brakeman  tells  you  it  is 
all  right  is  small  satisfaction  at  the  moment.  The 
train  is  unusual,  too — cars  that  look  like  horse- 
carrying  cars,  with  one  small,  square  window  to  each 
compartment,  and  platforms  and  steps  at  the  ends 
like  those  of  a  freight  caboose  over  here;  and  each 
compartment  big  enough  for  about  four  people  only. 

After  a  little  we  discovered  that  not  only  did  we 
not  know  where  we  were  going,  but  that  the  French- 
man who  was  our  only  fellow  passenger  in  the  same 
box-stall  didn't  know  where  he  was  going,  either! 
The  dour  brakeman  looked  as  though  he  were  the 
guard  of  some  lunatics  bound  for  an  asylum.  Doubt- 
less the  volleys  of  questions  shot  at  him  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  that.  But  at  last  Crecy-le-F6ret 
and  our  Crecy  proved  to  be  one  and  the  same,  and 
we  clambered  swiftly  down  from  our  cushionless  car, 
to  be  left  perplexed  upon  the  station  platform. 

A  kindly  old  farmer,  looking  on  from  his  cart, 
suddenly  called  out:  "You  wish  to  see  the  battle- 
field.'^ You  will  find  carriages  at  the  Hotel  of  the 
Golden  Cannon,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  town,  a  long 
quarter  of  a  mile  away.  It  proved  a  pleasant  walk, 
mostly  uphill. 

Boldly  I  thrust  my  head  into  the  mouth  of  the 
Golden  Cannon,  a  pleasant  place,  truly,  where  a 
tantalizing   aroma   of  baking   "tarts-to-the-apples" 

[32] 


ABBEVILLE    AND    NEARBY 

assailed  mj  olfactories.  Perched  upon  a  very  high 
stool,  m£idame  nodded  with  the  weight  of  her  eighty 
winters  over  knitting  that  drooped  upon  the  bar. 
A  handsome  cat  and  her  twin  kittens  lazily  washed 
themselves  and  basked  in  the  crackling  warmth  of 
an  open  fire,  whose  jets  of  flame  danced  impishly  upon 
the  rows  of  dark  bottles  at  madame's  broad  back. 
Clean,  white  sand,  freshly  strewn,  dusted  the  floor, 
and,  at  a  table,  Boniface  himself,  white  and  crabbed 
and  old,  played  cards  with  a  youthful  guest.  Be- 
tween them  glasses  and  a  decanter  of  eau-de-vie — ^ 
their  fiery  "water  of  life,"  which  we  call  plain  brandy  ' 
— bespoke  still  further  the  cheery  air  of  hospitality 
the  room  displayed  in  every  line. 

At  my  query,  "You  have  carriages?"  he  started, 
and  counted  his  cards  slowly  before  answering.  Evi- 
dently the  pleasure  of  the  game  meant  more  to  him 
than  a  few  paltry  francs,  for  he  scratched  his  gray 
head,  and  answered  gruffly:  "No,  I  have  nothing 
to  send  out  to-day.  It  is  only  a  mile  and  a  half. 
You  can  walk." 

We  were  more  fortunate  farther  along,  at  the 
Cafe  of  the  Veterans,  and  secured  a  decrepit  old 
miniature  stage  for  the  trip  to  the  now  peaceful 
scene  of  that  dreadful  fight,  one  of  the  earliest,  and, 
to  the  French,  most  disastrous,  battles  in  that  terrible 
conflict  known  as  the  Hundred  Years  War. 

Generalship,  not  numbers,  won  the  action.  The 
haughty  French,  despising  the  handful  of  25,000 
Englishmen,  all  dismounted,  thought  tliey  had  only 

[2Z] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

to  strike  one  blow  to  wipe  them  out  of  existence. 
Besides,  they  took  the  English  troops  for  serfs  and 
mercenaries,  like  their  own  infantry,  poor  creatures 
who  would  strike  and  bolt,  to  be  lanced  in  flight 
like  so  many  wild  boars  by  the  mounted  nobles.  This 
was  a  costly  mistake.  The  Britons  were  freemen  and 
landowners,  who  could  be  depended  upon  to  acquit 
themselves  like  men.  Furthermore,  the  English  were 
posted  at  the  crest  of  a  long,  gentle  slope,  with  the 
sun  at  their  backs,  and  had  the  deadliest  weapon  of 
that  day,  the  longbow,  almost  as  fatal  an  arm  as  the 
old-fashioned  musket. 

The  loosely  organized,  undisciplined  French,  100,- 
000  strong,  were  mired  at  the  foot  of  the  slope, 
in  a  slough  so  sticky  that  when  the  order  came  to 
charge,  the  mercenary  crossbowmen  and  the  poor 
chargers,  weighted  down  by  their  armored  masters, 
could  hardly  lift  a  foot.  At  last  they  moved,  and 
with  that  heart-stirring  disregard  of  danger  that  has 
always  been  characteristic  of  French  fighting,  lum- 
bered into  a  flight  of  arrows  so  terrible  it  seemed  a 
blinding  snowstorm.  Horses  and  men  went  down, 
and  others  piled  over  upon  them  in  a  helpless,  kicking, 
mangling,  shouting  mass.  Again  and  again,  with 
splendid  heroism,  the  French  tried  to  still  that  deadly 
storm.  Never  was  national  character  better  shown ; 
never  was  the  folly  of  individualism  and  the  lack  of 
discipline  better  exemplified  than  that  bloody  after- 
noon of  Crecy.  The  russet  fields  turned  crimson, 
the  slain  made  a  carpet  for  the  rushing,  struggling 

[34] 


ABBEVILLE    AND    NEARBY 

fighters ;  and  when  the  sun  went  down  upon  the  car- 
nage, thirty  thousand  French  dead  cumbered  the 
field  of  the  worst  defeat  they  had  ever  experienced — 
more  French  dead  than  there  had  been  Enghsh  sol- 
diers when  the  fight  began — and  among  them  the 
flower  of  chivalry:  twelve  hundred  knights,  eight 
knights-banneret,  eleven  princes. 

Of  them  all,  blind  King  Jean  of  Bohemia  made 
the  most  heroic  and  typical  figure.  Strapped  to  his 
charger,  the  valiant  blind  man  said  to  his  knights: 
*'I  ask  you  very  especially  that  you  place  me  so  far 
in  advance  that  I  may  strike  one  good  blow  of  the 
sword."  And  on  one  side  of  the  little  monument, 
raised  where  the  English  pikes  laid  him  low,  is  in- 
scribed the  passage  from  Froissart:  "Jean  struck 
one  blow,  behold  three,  behold  even  four,  and  fought 
most  valiantly."  On  another  side  are  the  words: 
*'The  valiant  chevaliers  of  France  found  it  sweeter  to 
die  than  to  be  reproached  for  villain  flight." 

Legend  has  it  that  King  Edward  directed  the  bat- 
tle from  an  old  stone  windmill  which  stood  on  the 
highest  knoll  commanding  the  field.  The  mill  was 
not  torn  down  until  1886,  540  years  after  the  fight, 
when  its  peasant  owTier,  in  a  sudden  fury  of  mis- 
guided patriotism,  razed  it  on  the  occasion  of  some 
ill-feeling  between  France  and  England.  To-day  the 
small  boys  of  the  neighborhood  find  the  spot  useful 
for  kite-flying  experiments,  and  the  healing  grass 
has  overgrown  even  the  bare  scar  the  age-old  founda- 
tions left  in  the  soil  of  this  tragic  knoll. 

[35] 


IV 


STONE      BIBLBS 


AWAY  back  in  481,  Clovis,  then  only  fifteen 
years  old,  came  to  the  Frankish  throne  at 
Amiens,  and  promptly  began  the  hammer- 
and-tongs  sort  of  diplomacy  that  enabled  him  to 
build  up  a  great  and  powerful  kingdom.  First,  at 
Soissons,  he  annihilated  Roman  sovereignty,  and 
gathered  confidence.  Then  came  Tolbiac,  where  he 
hurled  back  more  savage  Germans  who  also  wanted 
a  share  of  this  fair,  new  land ;  and  lastly,  at  Poitiers, 
he  wrecked  the  rival  Visigothic  power  in  the  south. 
All  this  was  not  easy,  but  Clovis  was  as  great  a 
politician  as  he  was  a  warrior.  Until  he  saw  himself 
being  defeated  at  Tolbiac,  he  had  stuck  to  his  pagan 
gods;  but  then,  in  the  crucial  instant,  he  swerved 
to  the  God  of  his  Christian  wife,  Clotilde — and  won. 
That  settled  the  weaker  gods,  and  Clovis  became 
a  Christian  himself.  Who  knows — the  whole  history 
of  France  may  have  hinged  upon  that  savage  peti- 
tion, and  afterward  upon  his  fierce  allegiance  to 
his  new  and  mighty  god  of  battles.  Some  modem 
historians  have  handled  Clovis  rather  roughly  be- 
cause he  did  not  immediately  manifest  what  we  of 

[36] 


STONE   BIBLES 


to-day  consider  the  Christian  virtues.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  his  new  belief  only  added  strength  to  his 
arm.  And  as  for  "conversion"  converting  the  leop- 
ard's spots — what  have  the  Christian  nations  been 
doing  since  the  very  beginning? 

Long  before  Clovis'  time — as  early  as  301,  in  fact 
— converts  were  being  made  in  Amiens.  In  that 
memorable  year  a  stranger  came  preaching  to  the 
astonished  Amienois,  who  were  still  kneeling  to  the 
Roman  gods,  and  turned  so  many  to  the  new  faith 
that  the  priests  of  Jupiter  and  Mercury  complained 
to  the  governor.  The  result  was  inevitable,  and  the 
stranger,  Firmin  by  name,  became  the  first  martyr 
and  saint  of  the  city.  Its  two  other  great  religious 
figures,  however,  are  much  more  celebrated:  the  Ro- 
man soldier,  St.  Martin — everybody  knows  the  story 
of  his  cloak  and  the  beggar — and  Peter  the  Hermit, 
who  preached  the  first  crusade.  Yet  Amiens,  loyal 
to  St.  Firmin  martyr,  dedicated  its  magnificent  thir- 
teenth century  Cathedral  to  him. 

And  such  a  Cathedral — the  very  flower  and  type  of 
the  Gothic !  Indeed,  M.  Viollet-le-Duc,  the  most  fa- 
mous of  modern  French  architects,  has  called  it 
"the  Parthenon  of  French  architecture."  Not  that 
it  is  the  most  beautiful  in  France — its  towers,  never 
finished  off  with  the  tall  spires  they  need,  are  mere 
squatting  dwarfs,  guarding  a  giant;  and  its  slender 
jieche,  or  arrow-spire,  derided  by  Ruskin,  has  become 
world  famous  as  "the  pretty  caprice  of  a  village  car- 
penter."    Its  perfection  lies  in  its  general  purity 

[37] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

of  style,  untinctured  by  Romanesque  or  any  other 
discordant  note. 

What  a  deal  we  can  learn  from  it!  Not  merely 
of  glorious  engineering  and  architecture,  but  of  the 
faith  of  men  in  that  wonderful  thirteenth  century, 
when  worship  was  man's  highest  function  and  reason 
for  being.  To  the  simple  burghers  the  cathedral  was 
literally  the  House  of  God,  where  the  Divine  Presence 
constantly  dwelt  within  the  enclosed  choir.  This 
House  of  God  is  literally  built  upon  the  foundation 
of  the  prophets  and  apostles,  with  Christ  as  the 
chief  corner-stone.  On  the  central  pillar  of  the  great 
main  portal  stands  a  tender  and  appealing  figure^ — 
the  Beautiful  God  of  Amiens.  It  is  without  realism, 
a  pure  attempt  to  express  Divinity.  On  either  hand 
are  the  apostles  and  the  major  prophets  who  foretold 
Him.  These  figures  are  Picard  portraits,  likenesses 
of  the  burghers  of  the  day,  and  bear  what  M.  Anatole 
le  Braz  calls  the  "race  impress  and  innocent  realism" 
of  the  models,  and  are  correspondingly  true  and 
lifelike. 

Every  detail  about  Him  has  either  spiritual  or 
esthetic  meaning.  He  tramples  the  lion  and  the 
dragon  of  human  sin  under  foot ;  directly  below  flows 
the  running  tracery  of  a  grapevine;  upon  the  sides 
of  His  pedestal  climb  a  wondrous  lily  and  a  bloom- 
ing rose ;  in  front  stands  a  small  carven  figure  of 
one  who,  with  crown  and  scepter  and  scroll,  is  clearly 
prophet,  priest  and  king.  What  does  it  all  mean.^^ 
Who  can  the  king  be  but  David  himself.'^    "I  am  the 

[38] 


STONE    BIBLES 


root  and  the  offspring  of  David,"  runs  the  Messianic 
saying.  Now  we  begin  to  grasp  the  significance  of 
the  "lily  of  the  valley,"  the  "rose  of  Sharon,"  "the 
true  vine." 

All  this,  and  more,  on  the  fa9ade;  amazing  riches 
of  sculptured  figures,  great  and  small ;  exquisite  four- 
foil  medallions,  each  a  charming  and  delicate  picture 
by  itself,  showing  now  the  months,  their  labors  and 
symbols,  now  the  works  or  attributes  of  holy  men ; 
gargoyles,  arabesques,  fretwork,  and  a  great  rose 
window.  In  one  door  reigns  the  benign  St.  Firmin, 
in  another  the  Virgin  Mother-Queen,  calm  and  radi- 
ant, in  wonderful  contrast  to  that  later  Virgin  of 
the  fourteenth  century,  who  illuminates  a  side  door 
with  her  coquettish  halo  and  "gay  soubrette's  smile." 
Truly,  French  ideals  had  changed  since  the  Mother- 
Queen  was  carved,  with  adoration  in  every  chip  of 
the  chisel. 

On  studying  the  exterior  of  a  Gothic  cathedral, 
it  must  not  be  forgotten  that,  except  for  the  fa9ade5 
it  is  the  wrong  side  of  the  fabric  you  see — simply 
a  vast  expanse  of  vertical  engineering  in  stone,  with 
interposed  glass  screens  or  windows.  The  seams,  the 
knots,  the  reverse  of  the  real  design  are  all  apparent. 
But  inside  the  true  pattern,  the  master  weaver's  de- 
sign, appears  in  the  full  majesty  of  both  its  thought 
and  execution.  In  their  striving  for  sublimity  the 
Amienois  raised  the  groined  ceiling  to  the  almost 
inconceivable  height  of  a  hundred  and  forty  feet 
above  the  floor.     It  seems  to  float  lightly  upon  the 

1 39] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

needle-like  shafts  that  rocket  upward  to  the  spring 
of  the  vaulting.  But  the  real  supports,  the  great  but- 
tress piers  and  the  flying  buttresses,  that  carry  the 
thrust  and  weight,  are  all  on  the  wrong  side — the 
outside. 

Amid  all  the  wonders  of  the  interior,  do  not  miss 
the  two  great  bronze  tombs  in  mid-nave  of  Bishops 
Everard  and  GeofFroy,  who  by  faith  and  persever- 
ance raised  the  great  fane.  Their  monuments  are 
all  the  more  impressive  since  they  are  the  only  ones 
of  that  age  in  all  France  which  did  not  fall  victims 
to  the  revolutionary  madness,  and  emerge  from  the 
furnace  of  politics  metamorphosed  into  cannon,  gun- 
powder and  absinthe. 

In  the  choir  is  the  wonder  of  wonders,  in  whittled 
oak,  splendid  work  of  the  sixteenth  century,  rich, 
fully  developed  flamboyant,  but  full  of  power  and 
spirit.  Truly  the  carvers  who  made  these  seats  and 
canopies  worked  for  love — three  cents  a  day,  or 
thirty-two  cents  a  figure,  was  all  the  world  paid  for 
their  skill  and  knowledge.  Under  their  knives  the 
tough  and  seasoned  wood  leaped  like  fire  forty  feet 
into  delicate  pinnacles,  or  writhed  into  a  labyrinth, 
or  plodded  along  in  amazing  Bible  stories  true  to 
the  last  detail.  Who  were  these  cunning  workers.'' — 
where  the  tablet  solemnly  recording  their  names.'* 
Look  on  the  eighty-fifth  and  the  ninety-second  stalls. 
On  the  one,  fat,  jovial  Jhan  Trupin  carved  his  own 
head  and  his  name;  on  the  other  his  name,  and  the 
brief  prayer,  "God  take  care  of  thee."     That  is  all. 

[40] 


STONE    BIBLES 


No  other  apparently  thought  it  worth  while  to  leave 
any  record  of  himself  beside  his  work. 

The  most  precious  relic  the  Cathedral  possesses 
is  what  is  said  to  be  a  part  of  the  skull  of  John 
the  Baptist.  His  tragic  story,  told  vividly  on  the 
north  side  of  the  choir  screen,  in  high  rehef,  runs 
from  the  time  when  he  appeared  in  his  camel's-hair 
robe  before  Herod  to  the  moment  when  Salome  has 
the  tardy  decency  to  swoon  as  Herodias  stabs  vic- 
iously at  the  head  with  her  dagger.  On  the  opposite 
side  is  the  life  of  St.  Firmin,  the  scenes  ending  with 
his  martyrdom  by  some  very  Gallic-looking  Roman 
soldiers. 

One  of  the  main  reasons  for  the  elaborate  sculp- 
tures^bf  the  old  cathedrals  was  the  illiteracy  of  the 
masses.  Reading  was  the  gift  of  the  few;  books 
and  papers  there  were  none.  Consequently  Biblical 
history  and  tradition,  as  well  as  secular  lore,  could 
be  made  real  to  the  people  only  by  practical  illus- 
tration with  carven  statues.  This  was  as  true  of 
the  grotesques  as  of  the  sacred  subjects.  The  artists 
had  no  comic  weeklies  then  to  print  their  caricatures, 
so  we  find  them,  instead,  everywhere  in  juxtaposition 
with  the  most  sacred  subjects.  No  irreverence  was 
either  meant  or  understood.  And  woe  to  the  rich 
philistine  who  offended !  Caricatures  in  stone  and 
seasoned  oak  last  longer  than  in  printer's  ink  on 
flimsy  paper. 

The  esthetic  and  poetic  side  of  the  Cathedral  can- 
not be  reduced  to  either  the  written  or  the  spoken 

[41] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

word.  You  must  behold  it  with  the  spiritual  as 
well  as  with  the  mental  vision  before  you  can  com- 
prehend its  force,  beauty  and  meaning.  Go  in  the 
afternoon,  when  the  westering  sun  is  pouring  into 
the  vast  cavern  of  the  nave  a  flood  of  ethereal  color 
through  the  glorious  roses  and  lancets.  Steep  your- 
self in  color.  Silently  rest  among  the  pillars  that 
turn  sapphire  and  gold,  emerald  and  crimson,  under 
the  necromancy  of  man  and  his  Maker  alike;  and 
come  away  uplifted,  awed,  singing  at  heart  with  the 
reverence  of  other  days,  when  life  was  not  wholly 
sordid,  and  men  had  souls  to  open  to  the  light. 

All  the  color  and  peace  of  Amiens  does  not  by 
any  means  reside  in  the  Cathedral.  Near  by,  the 
little  Park  Rene  Goblet  is  a  joy  and  refreshment, 
with  its  unimaginably  beautiful  begonias.  The 
Street-of-the-Three-Pebbles  runs  straight  from  the 
park  to  the  Place  Gambetta,  one  of  the  busiest 
squares  in  the  whole  city,  and  the  focus  of  its  entire 
trolley  system.  Seven  of  the  town's  main  arteries 
open  into  this  vortex,  and  five  lines  of  tramcars  make 
it  a  huge  loom,  animated  by  the  darting  shuttles  full 
of  humanity.  In  some  respects  this  focusing  of  the 
trolley  system  has  a  distinct  advantage;  but  as  the 
lines  radiate  like  the  sticks  of  a  fan,  you  find  it  very 
inconvenient  if  you  are  out  on  the  edge  of  town  and 
wish  to  go  on  along  the  edge,  to  have  to  come  back 
to  the  square  and  go  out  again  on  another  line. 

Above  the  city  the  "soft-glittering"  River  Somme 
divides  into  numerous  swift  little  streams,  making 

[42] 


STONE   BIBLES 


the  old  part  of  the  town  a  veritable  French  Venice, 
though  the  water  is  transparent,  not  blue,  and  the 
buildings  are  far  from  palatial — modest  homes  of 
the  toilers,  dingy,  aged  and  ramshackle  enough,  but 
mightily  picturesque  with  their  pots  of  bright-colored 
flowers  on  little  balconies  overhanging  the  smooth- 
flowing  stream  below. 

There  is  a  very  attractive  walk  out  along  the  hal- 
lage  road,  beside  the  river,  to  the  irrigated  market 
gardens  called  the  Hortillonages.  First  there  are 
numerous  little  mills  and  dyeworks,  where  the  stream 
is  often  crimson,  or  blue,  or  black,  for  like  Abbeville, 
Amiens  is  a  great  textile  center,  thorny  with  an  abatis 
of  tall  chimneys,  over  which  Mr.  Ruskin  raged.  Then 
come  private  dwellings,  their  picturesque  back  yards 
running  down  to  the  water,  alive  with  blossoming  flow- 
ers and  the  tender  green  of  vines.  At  the  very  edge 
the  family  gondola  waits,  long  and  shallow  and  black, 
with  up-tilted  prow  and  stern,  giving  more  than  a 
suggestion  of  Italian  Venice.  As  mother  leads  the 
van  in  Abbeville,  so  here  she  paddles  the  boat,  while 
daughter,  after  the  accepted  manner  the  world  over, 
sits  in  elegant  leisure  in  the  bow. 

The  Hortillonages  are  a  veritable  archipelago,  the 
islets  divided  by  little  irrigating  canals,  most  of  them 
wide  enough  to  let  the  boats  nose  through.  Here  an 
ancient  colony  of  amphibious  gardeners,  about  two 
thousand  strong,  delves  in  the  rich  soil  to  furnish 
Amiens  with  vegetables.  With  true  peasant  tenacity 
they  stick  to  the  laborious  methods  of  their  ances- 

[43] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

tors,  and  remain  as  they  have  been  for  centuries,  a 
curious  medieval  survival.  Still  farther  along  are 
pretty  little  villas,  each  one  a  moated  grange,  its 
only  communication  with  the  river  road  over  iron 
bridges  with  locked  gates.  Turn  back,  and  all  the 
long  way  in  to  town  the  river  is  a  panorama  to 
stir  the  most  callous  or  careless.  The  soft  Picard 
sky  overhead,  a  grayish,  delicate  blue  almost  too 
beautiful  to  be  real,  floats  heavenly  argosies  of  white 
clouds.  Far  away  in  the  city,  rising  massive  and 
dominant,  is  the  Cathedral,  its  delicate  fleche  piercing 
the  sky  and  trembling  down  along  the  water,  a  living 
indicator  of  the  house  of  peace.  We  wonder  if  the 
gardeners,  as  they  float  down  to  market,  note  the 
changing  beauty  of  the  scene;  if  they  have  any  of 
the  feeling  for  their  beautiful  Cathedral  that  inspired 
the  people  at  the  time  of  its  erection. 

What  a  picture  that  unique  provision  flotilla  under 
way  would  make!  But  it  comes  down  about  three 
or  four  o'clock  in  the  morning — enough  to  discour- 
age the  most  ardent  camera — so  it  was  nearly  eight 
before  mine  reached  the  humming  Place  Parmentier. 
It  is  the  greenest  market  I  ever  saw,  boats  and  quays 
alike  covered  with  cabbage,  cauliflower  and  melons, 
which  appear  to  be  the  staples,  with  great  splashes  of 
warm  color  from  the  carrots.  The  air  is  redolent  of 
fresh  earth  and  the  tang  of  newly  pulled  vegetables ; 
it  clatters  with  the  harsh  babel  of  the  Picard  dialect, 
the  nasals  of  the  French,  the  occasional  speech  of  a 
foreigner.     Everybody  is  hustling.      Money   clinks 

[44] 


STONE    BIBLES 


in  passing  from  pouch  to  pouch.  Shrill  housewives 
argue  and  bargain.  Cheese  merchants,  butter  deal- 
ers, egg  sellers,  butchers,  and  a  host  of  others,  add 
their  clamor  to  the  general  din.  The  s^pirit  of  this 
market,  unlike  those  of  either  Spain  or  Italy,  is  good- 
natured  haste — must  not  all  self-respecting  folk 
be  done  with  their  buying  or  selling  by  ten  o'clock, 
and  be  off? 

The  street  below  the  Place  is  given  over  to  what 
is  usually  called  a  rag  fair,  and  at  the  most  con- 
spicuous angle  of  street  and  bridge  we  found  a 
demonstrator  of  the  very  latest  Parisian  fashions 
in  hair  dressing.  Her  little  mannequin,  with  its  blond 
wig,  looked  very  queer  in  the  open  street.  The  broad- 
backed  women  from  the  market  were  as  much  inter- 
ested in  mademoiselle  and  her  wares  as  their  finely 
dressed  sisters  are  in  the  windows  of  the  best  shops 
along  the  Street-of-the-Three-Pebbles.  Many  a 
woman  with  her  basket  full  of  fresh  vegetables  fell 
a  victim  to  the  glib  persuasiveness  of  mademoiselle. 
I  can  hear  her  yet,  exclaiming:  "OA,  madamey  il.est 
tres  chic!  Mon  Dieu,  mais  c^est  tres  chic!  Voila!" 
Mademoiselle  was  shy  of  the  camera,  so  I  spent  quite 
a  while  focusing  about  to  disarm  suspicion.  Con- 
vinced at  last  that  I  was  a  mild  lunatic,  interested 
only  in  "cabbages  and  kings,"  she  fell  to  work,  and 
I  caught  a  perfectly  unconscious  pose. 

To  the  southeast  of  Amiens  is  Soissons,  noted  for 
beans  and  sieges.  Indeed,  soissons  is  beans,  in 
French.    It  was  here  that  Clovis  gave  the  death  blow 

[451 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 


to  Roman  power,  and  all  through  the  centuries  con- 
queror after  conqueror  has  laid  it  waste,  the  last 
time  the  thundering  German,  in  1870.  So  ancient 
Soissons  is  to-day  a  modern  town*,  with  fine,  tree- 
lined  avenues,  big,  open  squares,  and  a  pleasant 
visage  laved  by  the  River  Aisne. 

When  we  emerged  from  the  railroad  station  a 
comfortable-looking  steam  tram  was  apparently 
ready  to  start  from  a  fenced  enclosure  near  by,  and 
as  the  to\^Ti  looked  a  good  three-quarters  of  a  mile 
away  we  hurried  over.  Nobody  was  in  sight.  Across 
the  street  stood  a  frowsy  old  caravansary,  in  whose 
door  appeared  a  desolate-looking  waiter,  balder  and 
frowsier,  if  anything,  than  his  master's  hostelry. 
"When  does  the  tram  start,  monsieur?"  I  asked,  rely- 
ing upon  French  courtesy  for  information. 

He  shrugged  coldly  and  went  inside.  I  tried  again, 
this  time  a  boy.  Like  the  waiter,  he  shrugged.  "  W 
sais  pas!"  was  all  I  could  coax  out  of  him.  A  railroad 
employe  was  more  definite.  He  also  shrugged,  but 
replied":    "Umm,  in  about  an  hour  or  so,  I  think." 

With  reckless  extravagance,  we  engaged  one  of 
the  two  ancient  carriages  leisurely  decaying  in  the 
station  yard.  Traffic  has  apparently  passed  "Beans" 
by  in  these  latter  days,  though  there  are  the  remains 
of  several  interesting  abbeys  in  and  near  the  town. 
Indeed,  by  far  the  loveliest  things  in  Soissons  are  the 
magnificent  facade  and  towers  of  the  ruined  abbey 
church  of  St.  Jean-des-Vignes.  Rising  ghostly  and 
desolate  among  the  trees,  they  speak  in  no  uncertain 

[46] 


STONE   BIBLES 


accent  of  the  insanity  of  the  revolutionists.  The 
Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  is  a  fine  and  imposing 
structure,  a  singular  blend  of  the  older  Romanesque 
with  the  newer  Gothic.  Its  interior  proportions  are 
so  admirable  that  long  after  the  mere  details  are 
forgotten  the  harmony  and  dignity  of  this  one  struc- 
ture make  Soissons  a  pleasant  memory. 

As  we  rolled  north  and  eastward  toward  Laon, 
across  the  fertile  plain,  off  in  the  distance,  through 
the  poplars,  the  morning  sun  glittered  upon  bur- 
nished rifles  and  swords,  and  the  long,  low-lying  cloud 
of  dust  made  a  golden  halo  above  a  column  of  march- 
ing infantry.  We  thrilled  at  the  thought  of  a  siege, 
but  our  first  view  of  Laon  effaced  the  thought  and 
left  us  breathless.  Leaning  from  the  car  window, 
our  straining  eyes  played  tag  with  this  perfect  type 
of  hill  town  through  mo-st  exasperating  clumps 
of  trees  and  houses,  until  we  climbed  out  on  the  sta- 
tion platform  with  a  confused  sense  of  a  big  lump 
of  a  hill  crowTied  by  towers  we  knew  belonged  to  the 
Cathedral,  though  at  that  distance  they  looked  like 
some  medieval  chateau. 

The  hill  is  a  great  "limestone  island,"  with  a  spur 
that  curves  around  an  extraordinary  formation,  a 
daep,  square  valley  like  a  burnt-out  crater,  heavily 
wooded  with  pines  and  fruit  trees  and  garnished 
with  gardens.  It  makes  Laon  a  natural  fortress, 
and  as  you  look  at  it  from  the  plain  below  you  do 
not  wonder  the  timid  Carlovingians  clung  to  it  for 
safety.     When  the  roundabout  tram  brings  you  to 

[47] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

the  top,  or  you  have  climbed  the  263  steps  and 
their  intermediate  inclined  planes,  you  feel  that  if 
the  city  and  its  encircling  champaign  were  as  beau- 
tiful of  old  as  they  are  now  you  understand  in  a  way 
why  the  Carlovingian  kings  dallied  here,  where  the 
views  extend  wide  over  the  tree-tops  into  the  bottom- 
lands, the  aromatic  winds  sing  among  the  lofty 
branches  in  a  strain  no  lowland  city  ever  knew,  and 
the  air  is  clean  and  pure. 

We  wandered  through  the  picturesque  town,  enjoy- 
ing the  stern  ,old  mansions  with  their  martial  round 
towers  and  the  queer,  crooked  little  alleys  that  go 
rambling  off  to  the  sides  and  lose  themselves  near 
the  walls ;  we  peered  into  black  private  courtyards, 
through  fortified  gatewa^'^s  eloquent  of  former  war- 
fare, down  into  the  vast  cuve  or  valley  of  St.  Vincent, 
among  the  thick  pines  and  friendl}^  fruit  trees,  when, 
hark!  Drums  ruffled  smartly  and  bugles  shrilled  a 
lively  strain.  Peasants  ran.  We  joined  the  crowd, 
and  the  dust-crusted  red  and  blue  infantry  toiled 
up  through  the  main  square.  How  different  this  from 
the  old  days,  when  these  peasants'  ancestors  scurried 
into  their  burrows  like  frightened  rabbits  at  these 
same  sights  and  sounds. 

The  beautiful  parish  church  of  Notre  Dame,  with 
its  notable  group  of  bold  and  graceful  towers,  is 
one  of  the  very  earliest  of  Gothic  structures,  and 
shows  a  striking  family  resemblance  to  Notre  Dame 
de  Paris,  even  though  its  facade  is  graver,  and  in 
some  respects  presents,  as  M.  Louis  Hourticq  puts  it, 

[48] 


STONE    BIBLES 


a  "violent  and  uneasy  physlogomy."  How  are  the 
mighty  fallen,  indeed !  In  the  old  days  it  was  a 
cathedral,  and  the  Bishop  of  Laon  a  functionary 
hardly  less  important  than  the  Archbishop  of  Reims 
himself.  The  interior,  with  its  great,  flat,  English- 
type  eastern  end  instead  of  the  usual  apse,  its  noble 
proportions,  its  strong,  round  columns,  with  elabo- 
rately carved  capitals,  all  different,  is  fully  as  strik- 
ing as  the  outside.  It  Is  fresh  from  the  restorers' 
hands ;  indeed,  the  clink  of  the  chisel  still  echoes  down 
the  long  nave,  that  looks  so  white  and  cold  and  new. 
According  to  tradition,  the  stones  that  built  the 
one-time  cathedral  were  laboriously  hauled  up  the 
steep  slope  by  animals,  who  often  came  voluntarily 
and  offered  their  services.  However  that  may  be, 
nowhere  else  has  the  medieval  Christian  idea  of  com- 
memorating the  workers  found  a  more  poetic  realiza- 
tion than  in  the  great  oxen,  that  look  out  like  gigantic 
gargoyles  from  the  towers. 


ty^' 


[49] 


CHAMPAGNE      AND      CHUK.CHES 

'*To  crown  a  fine  dessert, 
There's  nothing  like  champagne," 

runs  the  old  French  chanson.  Be  this  as  it  may,  it 
has  been  used  for  less  than  two  hundred  and  fifty 
years,  though  wines  have  been  used  since  the  dawn 
of  time,  apparently — remember  Noah.  Champagne 
was  accidentally  discovered  by  the  monk  Dom  Perig- 
non,  who  had  charge  of  the  wine  cellars  of  the  Abbey 
of  Hautvillers,  near  Epernay,  about  1670,  and  since 
that  time  elaborate  establishments  for  its  manufac- 
ture have  sprung  up,  the  most  important  at  Epernay 
and  Reims.  ''Chateaux  de  commerce^*  the  French  call 
them,  a  very  queer-sounding  combination  to  Ameri- 
can ears.  One  of  the  show  places  of  Reims  is  such 
a  chateau,  in  a  beautiful  and  spacious  park,  well 
worth  a  visit. 

A  taciturn  employe  herds  visitors  ahead  of  him, 
in  groups  of  a  dozen  or  more,  down  the  stairs  into 
the  damp  chill  of  the  "caves,"  explaining  mechani- 
cally, as  he  goes,  to  the  lucky  two  or  three  close 
enough  to  him  to  hear.  It  is  interesting  to  learn 
that  champagne  of  the  finest  quality  is  made,  not 

[50] 


CHAMPAGNE   AND   CHURCHES 

from  white  grapes,  as  one  would  suppose,  but  almost 
exclusively  from  black.  Therefore,  the  picking, 
sorting  and  pressing  are  done  as  rapidly  as  possible, 
to  prevent  the  juices  from  absorbing  any  of  the 
coloring  matter  of  the  skins.  After  the  pressing  the 
juice  is  allowed  to  settle  for  a  few  hours,  when  it 
is  drawn  off  into  barrels  to  ferment.  In  December 
the  wine  is  put  into  bottles,  laid  carefully  on  their 
sides,  in  these  "caves." 

What  caves  they  are!  Wine  cellars  with  a  ven- 
geance, seventy-five  feet  or  more  underground ;  white- 
washed, immaculate  galleries  literally  by  the  mile, 
hewn  out  of  the  rock.  Each  long,  dim  corridor  has 
its  own  name — Gambetta,  New  York,  Lisbon,  St. 
Petersburg,  Strasbourg.  The  summer  after  the  bot- 
tles are  placed  here  they  are  stood  on  their  heads, 
not  upright,  but  slanted  in  racks.  Three  million  of 
them  make  a  very  queer  dumb  show,  with  here  and 
there  a  deft,  gnome-like  worker  with  a  light,  who 
twists  and  shakes  them  delicately  every  day  to  work 
the  sediment  of  fermentation  into  their  necks.  When 
this  fermentation  is  complete  the  wires  are  cut,  and 
the  force  of  the  gas  blows  out  cork  and  sediment 
together.  The  bottles  are  then  refilled  with  a  mixture 
of  brandy,  candied  sugar  and  fine  wine — "dosing" 
the  French  call  this  process — after  which  the  bottles 
are  recorked  and  rewired.  The  most  interesting  of 
all  are  these  "dosing"-rooms,  noisy  with  the  popping 
of  the  degorging  process,  as  men  work  like  machines 
to  turn  mere  wine  into  the  costly  golden  elixir. 

[  51 1 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

Corks  were  Dom  Perignon's  discovery,  also.  Be- 
fore his  time,  wads  of  hemp  or  cloth,  soaked  in  oil, 
were  the  only  stoppers  known.  In  all  probability, 
the  old  monk's  chance  use  of  corks  to  stopper  the 
bottles  led  to  the  discovery  of  the  gas  in  the  wine, 
since  it  could  not  escape  when  tightly  corked.  And 
while  it  may  seem  strange  to  speak  of  manufactur- 
ing champagne,  the  term  is  correctly  employed,  for 
without  the  "dosage"  it  would  be  a  mere  gaseous 
wine. 

But  the  story  of  Reims  is  by  no  means  the  mere 
story  of  champagne.  The  two  points  that  stand  out 
most  clearly  are  the  baptism  of  Clovis  and  the  ful- 
filment of  the  mission  of  Joan  of  Arc,  in  the  crowning 
of  that  sluggard,  Charles  VII.  Like  Amiens,  the 
city  to-day  is  thorny  with  detestable  chimneys  that 
veil  it  with  smoke,  and  indicate  its  thriving  manu- 
factures. But  it  is  a  pleasant  enough  place,  with 
its  broad  boulevards  enclosing  beautiful  parks,  mod- 
estly called  only  public  promenades. 

At  the  upper  end  of  these  promenades  is  the  oldest 
monument  of  past  ages  in  Reims,  the  Roman  Porte 
de  Mars,  a  triple  triumphal  arch,  named  after  a 
temple  of  Mars  that  once  stood  near  by.  Fluted 
Corinthian  columns  flank  the  archways,  with  their 
mutilated  carvings — and  Roman  flutings  exercised 
considerable  influence  upon  subsequent  architecture 
in  France.  Among  the  shrubbery  and  flowers  is 
something  that  carries  us  back  in  thought  still  fur- 
ther than   Rome — a  bed   of  papyrus   plants   from 

[52] 


CHAMPAGNE   AND    CHURCHES 

the  sun-steeped  banks  of  Father  Nile.  How  came 
they  here,  in  an  alien  land,  and  under  somber  skies? 
Who  knows?  Mayhap  their  feather-dustery  pro- 
genitors brushed  the  cheek  of  Rameses  himself,  or 
nodded  beside  the  barge  where  Antony  and  Cleopatra 
dreamed  and  let  an  empire  slip. 

Reims  is  a  city  of  wide-open  spaces.  The  streets, 
except  for  some  of  those  in  the  very  oldest  quarter, 
are  as  broad  as  our  own,  and  on  every  hand  there 
is  ample  evidence  of  intelligent  effort  to  make  the 
city  both  beautiful  and  sanitary.  The  one  that 
leads  from  the  railroad  station  into  the  heart  of 
the  town  is  broad  and  tree-lined,  and  the  houses 
project  over  the  sidewalks  on  wide,  sweeping  arcades, 
a  great  convenience  in  the  morning  to  travelers  in 
such  a  drippy  country  as  France.  In  the  afternoon 
the  cafetiers  fill  the  whole  arcade  with  tables  and 
chairs.  Then  you  are  glad  of  the  walk  outside, 
between  the  trees  and  pillars,  at  least  twenty  feet 
wide,  probably  nearer  thirty.  This  custom  of  mon- 
opolizing the  shelter  of  the  arcades  or  awnings  is 
very  pleasant  if  you  have  the  time  to  sit  with  the 
natives  and  sip  an  aperitif.  But  it  is  not  so  pleasant 
when  you  haven't,  and  there  is  no  outer  sidewalk,  as 
here  at  Reims.  Many  a  scowl  we  encountered  when, 
during  the  usual  rains,  we  stuck  to  the  sidewalks 
in  different  cities,  and  wormed  our  difficult  way 
among  the  crowded  chairs  and  tables,  instead  of 
sloshing  through  the  mud  and  water  out  in  the  road, 
where  the  courteous  and  unhurried  French  walked, 

[53] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

Not  the  least  element  of  charm  to  the  streets  is 
found  in  their  many  picturesque  old  houses.  The 
most  unusual,  if  not  the  most  beautiful,  is  the  House 
of  the  Musicians,  in  Tambourine  Street.  Across  the 
fa9ade  stretches  a  band  of  musicians,  stark  figures 
altogether  too  big  for  both  house  and  street.  In 
fact,  they  dwarf  the  house  completely.  Their  only 
importance  is  that  they  show  the  sort  of  musical 
instruments  in  use  at  that  epoch,  and  the  manner 
in  which  they  were  used. 

Christianity  came  to  Reims  about  the  end  of  the 
third  century,  and  some  two  hundred  years  later 
St.  Remi,  one  of  the  early  bishops,  by  his  success 
in  converting  Clovis  and  his  Franks,  made  the  city 
a  great  religious  center.  From  that  time  onward 
it  was  increasingly  influential,  the  scene  of  many  an 
exceedingly  important  religious  council,  and  after 
the  Capetian  dynasty  came  into  power  most  of  the 
kings  of  France  were  crowned  there.  St.  Remi  was 
commemorated  by  the  Abbaye  St.  Remi,  founded  in 
the  sixth  century.  The  present  church  that  bears 
his  name,  however,  on  the  same  site,  belongs  to  the 
transition  period,  when  all  manner  of  experiments 
were  being  tried,  while  still  many  of  the  details  of 
the  pure  Romanesque  were  adhered  to.  One  feature 
not  included  in  the  architects'  plans  is  a  long  hollow 
w^orn  in  each  stone  balustrade  beside  the  stone  steps. 
\  Water,  it  is  said,  wall  wear  away  the  hardest  rock, 
but  it  remained  for  the  youngsters  of  Reims  to 
prove  that  skin  and  bone  wdll  do  just  as  well.     We 

[54] 


CHAMPAGNE    AND    CHURCHES 

found  three  tiny  girls,  very  scantily  clothed,  con- 
tinuing the  polishing.  For  our  benefit  they  gave 
an  especially  vigorous  exhibition,  and  the  bright 
young  mongrel  puppy  with  them  considered  it  as 
much  a  duty  as  a  pleasure  to  follow  his  leaders. 
Every  time  the  children  reached  the  bottom  he  sprang 
to  the  top,  and,  squatting  on  his  haunches,  barked 
blithely  as  he  slid  down,  too. 

Though  St.  Remi  has  often  been  restored  and 
changed,  it  still  retains  its  personality  as  a  vast  and 
noble  basilica,  where  one  feels  lost  amid  a  forest 
of  piers  and  columns  with  beautifully  carved  capi- 
tals. There  is  no  denying  the  simplicity,  the  dignity, 
the  substantiality  of  the  Romanesque.  On  the  wall 
of  the  south  transept  is  a  quaint  seventeenth  cen- 
tury conception,  in  high  relief,  of  the  baptisms  of 
Clovis,  Constantine  and  Christ.  In  the  center,  John 
baptizes  Jesus  in  the  flowing  Jordan,  while  the  Dove 
descends  in  an  aura  of  clouds  and  flaming  rays.  On 
the  right,  Constantine,  immersed  in  a  Roman  font, 
curiously  enough  receives  the  same  spiritual  visi- 
tation. The  sculptor  denied  it  to  Clovis,  who,  on 
that  far-away  Christmas  Day,  in  496,  was  sternly 
admonished  by  St.  Remi  to  worship  what  he  had 
burned  and  to  burn  what  he  had  worshiped. 

The  basilica  in  which  the  interesting  ceremony  took 
place  did  not  stand  on  this  spot,  but  occupied  the 
site  of  the  present  Cathedral.  And  of  all  the  cathe- 
drals built  in  that  fabulously  active  period,  the  thir- 
teenth  century,   this   one   of  Reims,   commenced   in 

[55  1 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA  TO    SEA 

1212,  is  perhaps  the  most  magnificent,  while  its 
facade  offers  the  most  splendid  example  in  the  world 
of  the  unfolding  of  the  Gothic  idea,  with  its  deeply 
recessed  portals,  its  rose  window  the  width  of  the 
nave,  its  beautiful  gallery  and  graceful  towers. 
These  great  portals  are  the  development  of  the  nar- 
thex  or  ante-church,  which  we  find  in  Burgundy  and 
farther  south.  Directly  over  the  rose  window  is  a 
striking  tableau  in  two  scenes :  on  the  left,  David 
killing  Goliath ;  on  the  right,  trying  to  provoke  the 
giant  to  combat.  How  careful  the  sculptor  was  to 
grow  oak  and  olive  and  fig  trees  under  which  the 
lambs  of  David's  flock  could  rest  while  their  master 
and  his  faithful  hound — he  looks  like  a  modern  crop- 
eared  bull  terrier — went  after  big  game. 

In  this  western  front  there  is  no  such  connected 
story  as  at  Amiens,  but  the  work  is  far  finer  and 
more  delicate.  The  nave  is  at  once  bold  and  free 
and  light,  and  both  aisles  are  hung  with  valuable 
tapestries.  About  the  capitals  of  the  massive  oc- 
tagonal pillars  are  wreaths  of  foliage,  among  which 
the  caprice  of  the  sculptor  has  mixed  human  and 
chimerical  figures.  The  lower  windows,  with  their 
plain  glass,  are  the  only  jarring  note;  and  even  that 
is  not  so  bad  as  it  might  be,  since  the  thirteenth 
century  clerestory  windows  and  the  magnificent  west- 
em  rose  still  exist  in  all  their  glory  of  rich  color. 

One  day,  as  we  came  into  the  Cathedral,  the  fif- 
teenth century  organ  was  thundering  softly  high 
above  in  the  majestic  canon  of  the  roof.     Before 

[56] 


CHAMPAGNE    AND    CHURCHES 

the  choir  stood  a  great  catafalque,  Its  candles  flick- 
ering like  fireflies  against  the  somber  funeral  pall 
draped  over  the  altar.  The  little  knot  of  black-robed 
mourners,  the  very  size  and  grandeur  of  the  empty 
edifice,  seemed  somehaw  a  personification  of  grief,  a 
materialization  of  human  sorrow  that  not  even  the 
strong,  comforting  voices  of  the  priests  in  the  choir, 
chanting  Gregorian  music,  could  allay.  How  diff'er- 
ent  from  the  brilliant  coronation  scenes  the  Cathedral 
has  witnessed  so  many  times ! 

In  all  those  ceremonies  a  precious  vessel,  called 
the  Sainte  Ampoule,  was  used.  According  to  tradi- 
tion, this  ampulla,  filled  with  inexhaustible  holy  oil, 
was  brought  from  heaven  by  a  dove  for  the  corona- 
tion of  Clovis.  The  Revolution  shattered  the  miracu- 
lous receptacle,  but  somehow  some  one  managed  to 
preserve  a  fragment  from  which  the  oil  had  not 
entirely  vanished.  This  was  carefully  enclosed  in 
a  new  jeweled  reliquary,  and  Charles  X  was  anointed 
from  it  at  his  coronation  in  1825.  Freeman  summed 
up  its  importance  very  well  by  pointing  out  that  its 
use  seemed  a  sort  of  patent  of  royalty,  since  the 
divine  right  of  no  king  anointed  from  it  was  ever 
disputed,  or  even  challenged. 

The  treasury  is  unusually  rich  for  a  French  ca- 
thedral, when  we  remember  the  frantic  pillaging  of 
revolutionary  days,  the  wanton  destruction  not  only 
of  precious  relics  of  no  intrinsic  value,  but  even  of 
immovable  furniture  and  decorations.  Reims,  accord- 
ingly, has  considerable  jewelry  and  goldsmiths'  work 

[57] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

of  great  value,  among  other  pieces  the  so-called 
chalice  of  St.  Remi,  solid  gold  twelfth  century  work, 
richly  encrusted  with  jewels  and  enamels. 

In  the  tympanum  of  the  north  transept  door  is 
an  exceedingly  engaging  exposition  of  the  belief  that 
St.  Remi  drove  from  the  city  a  band  of  devils  who 
had  set  it  on  fire.  The  faces  well  repay  scrutiny. 
The  fiend  on  the  left  takes  the  expulsion  as  a  joke; 
his  work  is  done,  and  he  can  go,  laughing.  The  sec- 
ond is  merely  impertinent.  The  third,  evidently  the 
leader,  and  his  attendant  imp,  are  truly  devilish  in 
their  snarling  resentment.  St.  Remi,  sad,  but  firm 
and  unmoved,  displays  calm  confidence  and  spiritual 
strength  more  than  equal  to  the  emergency,  while 
two  monks  behind  him  are  scarcely  even  interested. 
Since  they  were  accustomed  to  dealing  with  devils 
and  exorcisms,  it  seemed  to  the  sculptor  that  they 
would  take  such  a  thing  as  a  matter  of  course.  The 
whole  group  is  a  remarkable  imaginative  conception. 

Beside  the  north  transept  door  another,  long  since 
walled  up,  is  consecrated  to  the  Final  Judgment. 
The  tympanum  shows  the  Judge  of  all  the  earth, 
stern  and  awful,  upon  His  throne,  with  the  resur- 
rection of  the  dead  below,  in  a  double  panel.  What 
a  presentation  of  the  resurrection !  How  naif  and 
natural  are  the  figures  crawling  out  of  their  tombs ! 
One  soul  in  the  upper  row  gazes  devoutly  upward 
even  while  he  struggles  with  the  heavy  lid  of  his 
penthouse.  In  the  lowermost,  angels  bear  the  souls 
of  the  saved  to  the  bosom  of  Abraham,  and  devils 

[58] 


CHAMPAGNE   AND    CHURCHES 

drag  the  damned  to  a  great  pot  over  a  fire.  The  life- 
sized  souls  become  mere  dolls  for  devil's  broth  or 
patriarchal  bosom ;  a  notable  transformation,  whose 
reason  is  obvious.  Among  the  lost  are  a  king,  a 
bishop  and  a  monk,  "undoubtedly,"  a  French  writer 
declares,  "for  moral  reasons." 

The  sculptors  here  at  Reims  who  worked  on  the 
Cathedral  attained  a  mastery  of  style  that  recalls 
the  noblest  works  of  antiquity,  with  the  addition 
of  an  individuality  the  ancient  works  lacked.  Indeed, 
"the  last  half  of  the  century  reached  a  climax  which 
has  been  likened,  not  without  justice,  to  the  Golden 
Age  of  Pericles ;  in  fact,  the  whole  Middle  Ages  can 
offer  nothing,  in  point  of  classical  purity  and  eleva- 
tion, to  compare  with  the  finest  among  these  works."* 

All  the  beauty  of  the  Cathedral  cannot  by  any 
means  be  viewed  from  the  ground.  High  above 
run  three  galleries,  one  under  the  flying  buttresses 
outside,  two  within  the  fine  arcade  at  the  edge  of 
the  leaden  roof.  Here  is  a  world  of  sculpture  all 
by  itself:  finials,  crockets,  medallions,  cariatides,  lit- 
tle spires  and  turrets  and  dormers.  And  everywhere 
lean  gargoyles  thrust  far  out  to  carry  the  rain  away 
from  the  walls — ^w^eird,  half-imaginative,  half-real 
monsters  overflowing  with  expression  and  spirit. 

Even  more  moving  than  the  gargoyles  are  the 
grotesque  chimeras  that  sit  upon  the  topmost  balus- 
trade of  the  apse,  peering  out  over  the  city.  They 
seem  a  sort  of  elfin  tribe  of  watchdogs,  guardians 


*Luebke:     History  of  Art. 

[59] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

of  the  sacred  fane,  who  smile  and  smile  from  their 
lofty  perches  so  long  as  you  behave,  but  who  would 
rend  you  in  pieces  did  you  so  much  as  lay  a  finger 
upon  their  precious  charge.  Yet  my  fancy  must  be 
wrong,  or  they  would  have  rent  the  restorers.  Per- 
haps, after  all,  they  are  only  watching  for  the  joyous 
bringing  in  of  the  grapes,  for  wine  has  always  been 
very  close  to  the  Gallic  heart,  and  they  are  as  Gallic 
as  anything  in  all  the  length  and  breadth  of  France. 


[60] 


VI 


THE       GOLDEN       SIDE 

ON  to  the  south  of  Champagne  is  that  other 
vinous  district,  Burgundy,  where  the  wine 
is  as  heavy  and  rich  and  red  as  the  cham- 
pagne is  light  and  golden  and  sparkling.  It  was 
here  that  both  of  the  great  monastic  houses  that 
influenced  the  growth  of  the  Romanesque  so  pro- 
foundly, flourished — Cluny  and  Citeaux.  And  during 
the  twelfth  century  the  Burgundian  school  of  archi- 
tecture was  far  in  advance  of  all  others,  not  only 
in  the  size  and  magnificence  of  its  buildings,  but 
in  progress  in  design,  the  sculptors  turning  from 
the  conventional  and  stereotyped  patterns  of  classic 
art  to  Nature  for  their  models.  The  Burgundians, 
having  invaded  Gaul  some  fifty  years  earlier  than 
the  Franks,  were  already  Christians  when  the  latter 
came  down  to  Amiens,  and  furnished  Clovis  with  a 
Christian  princess — Clotilde — to  be  his  queen  and 
guiding  star.  One  good  turn  deserves  another,  and 
the  savage  Frank  repaid  his  queen's  province  by 
promptly  reducing  it  to  the  position  of  a  subject 
kingdom.  The  only  difficulty  was  that  Burgundy 
refused  to  stay  put.     Now  a  province,  again  a  king- 

[6i] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

dom  by  itself,  it  was  always  puissant  and  active, 
always  a  thorn  in  the  Prankish  side;  and  in  that 
tempestuous  period  when  the  feudal  system  was  in 
its  death  throes,  w^e  find  the  ambitious  Dukes  of 
Burgundy  ready  to  sacrifice  not  only  the  French 
crown,  but  the  very  French  nation  itself,  to  gain 
their  personal  ends. 

Though  they  had  no  national  feeling,  these  dukes 
did  care  mightily  for  their  duchy,  which  they  were 
trying  to  develop  into  a  kingdom.  It  was  always 
a  land  of  prosperity  and  plenty ;  it  is  to-day,  to  such 
an  extent  that  the  departement  cut  right  out  of 
/  ^  the  heart  of  old  Burgundy  is  called  the  Cote  d'Or, 
y     the  Golden  Side,  rich  in  grain  and  wine. 

The  city  of  Dijon  is  picturesquely  situated  at  the 
foot  of  the  hills  of  the  Golden  Side,  in  a  splendidly 
watered  plain,  on  two  rivers  and  a  canal  which  might 
well,  in  time  of  stress,  help  out  the  eight  great  forts 
surrounding  it  in  defending  the  citizens.  It  became 
the  capital  of  the  duchy  early  in  the  eleventh  century, 
but  was  not  prominent  until  the  latter  part  of  the 
fourteenth,  under  its  ambitious  Dukes  Philip  the 
Bold,  John  the  Fearless,  Philip  the  Good  and 
Charles  the  Boldv  And  what  is  this  "City  of  Glori- 
ous Dukes"  most  famous  for  now.?  Mustard  and 
gingerbread !  The  mustard  is  not  even  grown  there, 
but  only  mixed.  As  to  the  gingerbread — every  one 
to  his  taste! 

There  is  the  usual  contrast  of  wide,  new  streets 
and  old,  narrow  ones  jammed  with  quaint  and  unusual 

[62] 


THE   GOLDEN    SIDE 


houses  of  another  era  and  other  requirements.  Many 
of  them  are  quite  short;  the  others  extraordinarily 
crooked,  with  a  superabundance  of  names.  It  is 
highly  disconcerting  to  find  half  a  dozen  names  for 
one  street ;  even  more  so  to  find  it  wabbling  in  almost 
as  many  directions,  twisting  and  turning  like  the 
trail  of  some  hunted  animal.  Perhaps,  indeed,  that 
is  what  many  of  these  old  streets  are. 

In  the  center  of  the  city  is  the  Palais  des  Etats — 
House  of  Parliament — built  in  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries  around  the  scanty  remains  of  the 
ducal  palace — a  tower  or  two,  the  kitchen,  and  a  few 
other  rooms.  The  building,  or  rather  buildings,  are 
now  used  as  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  Post  Office  and 
Museum,  which  contains  one  of  the  finest  provincial 
collections  in  the  country.  The  gems  of  the  collec- 
tion are  the  tombs,  carefully  restored  since  the  Revo- 
lution, of  two  of  the  great  dukes,  Phihp  the  Bold 
and  his  son,  John  the  Fearless,  which  stand  in  the 
Salle  des  Gardes.  The  older  one,  dating  from  1414, 
is  the  finer  of  the  two ;  both  are  built  of  black  marble 
and  alabaster,  relieved  by  colors  and  gilding.  In 
the  niches  of  the  fine  Gothic  arcades  about  them  are 
statuettes  of  mourning  ecclesiastics,  exquisitely  sculp- 
tured and  disposed. 

From  the  Palais  des  Etats  the  Place  d'Arraes 
spreads  away  in  a  huge,  walled  semicircle  that  gives 
one  the  sense  of  being  in  the  bastion  of  some  gigantic 
fort,  though  the  walls  all  around  are  pierced  by  the 
doors  and  windows  of  the  shops  that  abut  upon  it, 

[63] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

and  bj  two  streets  which  run  through  it  near  the 
palace.  The  illusion  is  heightened  by  the  roofs  of 
the  other  houses  behind,  showing  above  the  wall,  and 
two  other  streets  driven  through  in  narrow  archways. 
I  have  never  seen  anything  else  like  it. 

Dijon  is  rich  in  old  houses  dating  from  the  Renais- 
sance, with  charming  f a9ades,  wooden  fronts  for  arti- 
sans and  stone  for  rich  bourgeois.  The  work,  how- 
ever, is  heavy  and  elaborate,  for  the  Burgundians,  in 
all  periods,  have  been  noted  for  their  love  of  super- 
abundant decoration  for  exteriors.  The  most  com- 
plete of  the  f  a9ades  of  the  French  Renaissance  is  that 
of  the  church  of  St.  Michel. 

The  present  Cathedral  of  St.  Benigne  dates  from 
the  latter  part  of  the  thirteenth  century.  It  is  a 
weird-looking  structure,  gray  and  forbidding  of 
walls,  kaleidoscopic  of  roofs,  the  covering  ranging 
from  stone  and  slate  to  bright,  multi-colored  tiles. 
In  style,  St.  Benigne  is  Gothic,  but  its  plan  is  very 
like  that  of  the  later  Romano-Byzantine  churches. 
Here  we  find  the  narthex,  or  vestibule,  an  ante-church 
sometimes  provided  for  the  catechumens — ^believers 
not  yet  baptized. 

The  most  remarkable  church,  however,  is  Notre 
Dame,  which  M.  Viollet-le-Duc  called  "the  master- 
piece of  the  Burgundian  school  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury." Nothing  you  may  have  read  quite  prepares 
you  for  the  extraordinary  ecclesiastical  zoo  that 
stares  down  at  you  from  the  fa9ade.  Immense  gar- 
goyles that  are  more  than  gargoyles,  chimeras  and 

[64] 


THE    GOLDEN    SIDE 


other  unholy  dream-beasts  glare  and  grin,  and  lean 
far  out  with  craning  necks,  in  rows  of  seventeen, 
from  rich  and  splendid  friezes  on  each  of  the  two 
arcaded  stories  above  the  fine  triple  porch.  Every 
one  of  these  monsters  is  different,  and  every  one  so 
overflowing  with  life  and  expression  that  you  forget 
everything  else  in  Dijon  to  stand,  staring  and  won- 
dering, below  them.  Apparently  the  architects  ex- 
pended their  energies  fully  upon  this  fa9ade,  for 
the  interior  presents  Httle  of  interest  beyond  its  tech- 
nical excellences.  But  you  forget  that,  and  turn 
again  for  one  last,  cheering,  regretful  glance  at  these 
swarming  ecclesiastical  hobgoblins  as  you  go  away. 
They  and  the  mustard  make  up.  your  happiest  memo- 
ries of  the  Burgundian  capital. 

South  from  Dijon  we  pass  through  the  heart  of 
the  Cote  d'Or,  where  we  find  the  historic  names  we 
recognize  on  every  side  are  those  famihar  to  us 
only  on  wine  cards.  It  is  as  though  the  whole  long 
list  had  developed  from  bottles  into  townis,  and  sprung 
into  life  here.  Within  the  past  twenty  years  or  so 
the  phylloxera  has  necessitated  the  practical  replant- 
ing of  all  the  Burgundian  vineyards.  As  in  Spain, 
American  vines  were  chosen,  many  of  them  from 
California.  So  it  is  the  soil  and  the  climate,  not 
the  vine,  that  makes  the  wine.  The  center  of  this 
fertile  wine  district  is  Beaune. 

It  is  particularly  satisfying  in  any  country  to  go 
exploring  the  obscure,  unimportant  little  cities  of 
which  you  know  almost  nothing  but  the  names.     In 

[65] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO   SEA 


the  more  important  places,  if  you  choose,  you  can 
usually  take  a  book,  written  in  your  own  language, 
and  easily  follow  up  every  scrap  of  historic,  scenic 
or  architectural  interest  that  amounts  to  anything. 
But  in  the  byways,  where  you  have  to  puzzle  it  all 
out  bit  by  bit  as  you  go  along  with  the  aid  of  the 
natives  you  meet,  most  often  in  the  humblest  walks 
of  life,  you  have  almost  the  joy  of  the  true  discoverer. 

The  medieval  aspect  of  Beaune — houses  with 
quaint  turrets  and  stair-towers,  images  and  curious 
balconies — lends  the  old  town  a  peculiar  charm.  Long 
ago,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  scattered  frag- 
ments, its  walls  gave  way  to  pleasant,  tree-hned 
boulevards.  The  moat,  however,  has  not  been  filled 
up,  and  mighty-muscled  laundresses  use  it  as  a  wash- 
tub,  with  very  picturesque  effect.  You  wonder  if 
they  are  not  the  ones  who  battered  down  the  walls. 

The  old  church  of  Notre  Dame  has  a  remarkable 
fourteenth  century  porch,  or  vast  exterior  narthex, 
like  another  smaller  but  unwalled  church,  surmounted 
by  a  handsome  gallery,  the  finest  of  its  type,  and 
very  like  that  of  St.  Germain  I'Auxerrois  in  Paris. 
Beaune's  greatest  hostage  to  fame,  however,  is  no 
church,  but  the  ancient  Hostel  Dieu,  or  Hospital  of 
St.  Esprit,  which  Dom  Nicolas  Rolin,  the  Chancellor 
of  Burgundy,  founded  in  1443.  The  street  exterior, 
of  grayish-brown  masonry,  with  small,  square,  barred 
windows,  a  high-pitched  slate  roof,  and  a  series  of 
elegant  and  graceful  pinnacles  and  little  flag-vanes 
of  gilded  lead,  suggests  an  ancient  chateau.     Over 

[66] 


THE    GOLDEN    SIDE 


the  door,  a  small,  high-pitched  canopy,  blue-ceiled  and 
gold-starred,  with  fine  leaden  finials  and  pendentives, 
testifies  perfectly  to  the  ideal  of  beauty  as  well  as 
usefulness  that  moved  men-  in  the  fifteenth  century ; 
and  the  iron  knocker — the  original  one — is  a  little 
Gothic  frame,  up  which  a  lizard,  the  knocker  proper, 
is  pursuing  a  fly. 

The  simple  exterior  gives  no  hint  of  the  beauty 
of  thje  interior  courtyard,  in  Flemish-Gothic,  with 
elaborate  wooden  pigTions  -and  covered  galleries.  In 
one  corner  of  the  court  is  a.  deep  well  with  a  beau- 
tiful old  Flemish  iron  frame,  from  which  dangles 
the  ancient  iron  bucket.  It  is  more  like  a  king's  lodge 
than  a  charity  hospital.  ^I.  Nicolas,  as  Philip 
the  Good's  chancellor,  had  large  ideas  regarding 
money,  and  his  aim-  was  that  each  patient  should 
enjoy,  while  in  the  Hostel,  everything  an  income  of 
a  thousand  Urres  each  could  provide. 

In  the  old  days  only  the  daughters  of  noble  or 
wealthy  families  were  sisters  here;  but  that  is  not 
the  case  with  the  devoted  band  of  nuns  who  give 
their  lives  to  the  service  of  the  poor  to-day.  They 
have,  however,  retained  their  fifteenth  century  cos- 
tumes— white  in  summer  and  blue  in  winter.  They 
flit  across  the  court,  and  up  and  down  the  galleries, 
silent,  grave,  story-book  princesses  full  of  good  works 
and  practical  tenderness.  Their  quaint,  full  skirts 
and  coifs  strike  a  pleasant  note  of  harmony  against 
the  satisfying  background  of  this  splendid  old  court, 
where  the  mere  presence  of  the  modern  visitors  and 

[67] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

doctors  and  workmen  is  a  harsh  anachronism.  One 
carpenter  especially  roused  my  ire  by  clambering 
astride  a  pignon  he  was  repairing,  to  roll  a  cigarette. 
Zounds — tobacco  in  the  fifteenth  century  ! 

The  main  ward  is  a  vast  vaulted  hall,  the  beds 
separated  by  curtains — to  keep  out  the  drafts,  a 
nurse  said.  But  they  can  be  drawn  back  to  let  the 
patients  hear  some  good  father  read  the  mass,  or 
preach  consolingly  from  the  mellow  old  pulpit  under 
the  magnificent  stained-glass  window  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  room. 

Everything  in  the  great  kitchen  is  as  spotless  as 
on  a  man-of-war,  and  most  appetizing  odors  waft  out 
from  the  range,  some  twenty  feet  long.  The  roast- 
ing is  still  done  in  the  cavernous  chimney-place,  on 
steel  spits  heavy  enough  to  support  a  whole  sheep 
or  half  a  beef.  The  spits  are  turned  by  Tourne- 
broche,  a  captivating  little  spit-boy.  He  turns  and 
turns  and  turns,  without  ever  a  backache  or  a  glance, 
beyond  watching  his  roasts,  for  Tourne-broche  is  a 
clockwork  boy,  wound  up  with  a  key.  The  sister  who 
showed  me  about  said  that  Messer  Nicolas  would  never 
tolerate  real  spit-boys,  and  that  the  little  mannikin 
dates  from  the  very  foundation  of  the  institution. 

"You  may  think  of  the  hospice  as  you  like,"  one 
writer  says,  "as  asylum  or  hospital  or  business  propo- 
sition." That  is  not  fair.  The  two  elements  of 
religion  and  charitable  healing  are  its-  main  features, 
and  both  require  money  to  accomplish  anything. 
After  all  the  centuries  of  its  useful  existence  the 

[68] 


THE    GOLDEN    SIDE 


Hostel's  chief  source  of  income  is  the  sale  of  its 
vintages,  and  why  should  not  this  be  done  in  a  busi- 
nesslike way  ?  The  Hostel  is  one  of  the  largest  own- 
ers of  vines  in  Burgundy,  and  this  sale  of  its  wines 
in  November  is  of  considerably  more  than  local  im- 
portance, its  influence  extending  even  to  America. 
The  actual  bidding,  I  was  told,  is  done  in  the  council 
hall,  but  the  quotation  board  is  posted  in  the  court, 
so  that  the  vast  crowd  can  note  the  prices,  which 
fix  the  market  values  of  all  the  principal  Burgundies 
for  the  succeeding  year. 

From  Beaune  a  jerky  little  steam  tram  runs  out 
through  the  hilly  heart  of  the  wine  section,  where 
the  vineyards  stretch  away  in  vast  fields  as  big  as 
com  fields  here,  acres  upon  acres  of  soft  and  tender 
green,  striped  with  the  thin  brown  lines  of  the  four- 
foot  poles  to  which  the  vines  are  tied.  Even  the 
liouse  yards  are  full  of  them;  not  a  flower,  a  blade 
of  grass  or  a  weed  is  to  be  seen.  Again  you  see 
the  high  stone  walls,  massive  and  frowning,  great 
clos  to  be  entered  only  through  the  padlocked 
iron  gate  in  the  wall,  or  thick,  thorny  hedges,  suffi- 
cient to  keep  everything  that  walks  or  creeps  at  a 
safe  distance  from  the  precious  crops  within. 

I  walked  two  very  dusty  miles  of  road  between 
Pommard  and  Beaune  to  see  how  the  vines  are  taken 
care  of  in  July.  In  one  place  a  two-hundred-pound 
Maud  MuUer,  when  she  saw  me  about  to  photograph 
the  vineyard,  asked  me  to  wait  until  she  could  go 
home  and  dress.    Her  employer,  a  very  friendly  agri- 

[69] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

culturist  and  vine  expert,  told  me  his  troubles  with 
the  g-ovemment,  which,  he  said,  bestowed  its  decora- 
tion of  the  Order  of  Agricultural  Merit  on  know- 
nothings  who  wrote  for  the  papers,  and  let  good  men 
who  did  the  actual  work  go  undecorated.  When  I 
jokingly  suggested  that  he  buy  the  decoration,  he 
sighed  and  answered:  "I  might,  but  it  costs  a  lot 
to  bribe  the  right  people." 

West  of  Beaune  is  the  Morvan,  a  country  of  roll- 
ing plains  and  lofty  hills,  where  the  people,  like  their 
own  granite  rocks — Morvan  means  Black  Rock — 
have  kept  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  world  for 
centuries.  To  this  day  the  marriage  of  a  Morvan- 
deau  with  any  one  of  a  different  section  is  a  rarity, 
and  consequently  the  original  physique,  physiognomy 
and  curious  moral  code  of  the  district  have  been 
preserved  almost  intact. 

One  of  my  objects  in  going  through  the  Morvan 
was  to  see  some  of  the  typical  Morvandeaux,  said 
to  have  round,  hairless  faces,  and  queer,  flat  noses. 
Somehow  or  other,  the  only  round,  hairless  face  I 
could  find  was  that  of  a  tiny  girl.  Baby  Jeanne, 
though  I  tramped  Chateau-Chinon,  the  geographical 
center  of  the  district,  from  end  to  end,  visited  the 
church  twice,  and  went  far  out  along  the  country 
roads.  The  supposition  is  that  these  people  are 
descended  from  some  of  Attila's  Huns,  who  re- 
mained in  this  district  after  their  leader's  defeat. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  men  I  saw  were  all  very 
hairy,   and   rather   American-looking.      The  women 

[70] 


THE    GOLDEN    SIDE 


were  even  better  proportioned  than  their  husbands. 
So  well  known  in  the  last  century  was  the  robustness 
of  these  Morvan  women  that  kings  and  emperors  sent 
here  for  wet-nurses.  Napoleon's  little  son,  the  King 
of  Rome,  was  nursed  by  a  young  Morvan  foster- 
mother. 

As  Chateau-Chinon  is  the  geographical  center  of 
the  Morvan,  so  Autun,  the  Augustodunum  of  Csesar, 
is  its  commercial  focus,  a  city  of  some  fifteen  thou- 
sand, with  quite  a  trade  in  cereals  and  other  agri- 
cultural products.  To-day,  Autun  is  little  more  than 
the  shrunken  mummy  of  the  city  the  Romans  built 
here  in  the  plain  to  take  the  place  of  Bibracte,  the 
capital  of  the  strong  Celtic  tribe  of  the  ^duii,  which 
occupied  the  crest  of  Mt.  Beuvray,  eleven  miles  dis- 
tant. The  former  greatness  of  the  Roman  metropolis 
is  amply  attested  by  many  remains  of  architectural 
importance,  among  them  two  fine,  half-ruined  gate- 
ways, the  Portes  St.  Andre  and  d'Arroux.  On  the 
latter  appear  the  pilasters  whose  flutings  exercised 
such  a  considerable  influence  upon  later  architecture. 
We  find  it  clearly  manifested  in  the  fine  triforium  of 
the  Cathedral  of  St.  Lazare.  The  capitals  of  the 
fluted  pilasters  are  just  as  unmistakably  Byzantine. 
Indeed,  the  whole  Cathedral  is  a  curious  but  elegant 
melange  of  Byzantine,  Romanesque,  Gothic  and  Re- 
naissance, though  the  main  part  was  only  fifty-eight 
years  in  building. 

To  visit  Autun  without  going  to  Bibracte  is  to 
miss  the  sense  of  its  true  relation  to  the  prehistoric 

[71] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

past.  It  was  there  that  representatives  from  all  over 
Gaul  convened  a  great  assembly  to  find  means  for 
making  one  last  desperate  struggle  against  Rome, 
sinking  their  tribal  jealousies,  and  choosing  Vercin- 
getorix,  chief  of  the  Arverni,  as  their  leader  in  this 
forlorn  hope.  Legend  and  fable  cluster  about  Mt. 
Beuvray  as  thickly  as  the  mists  and  rain  that  made 
its  ascent  impossible  for  me. 

Neyers  has  not  the  same  historic  prominence  as 
Autun  and  others  of  its  neighbors,  but  is  worth  a 
visit,  if  only  that  its  main  thoroughfare,  leading  up 
from  the  railroad  station,  pleasantly  reminds  you  of 
a  New  England  village  street — sunshine  streaming 
down  through  the  orderly  rows  of  fine  old  trees  to 
dapple  the  pavement  of  very  rough  stones,  cut  like 
bricks;  houses  -set  back  from  the  narrow  sidewalk  a 
little ;  flowers  here  and  there ;  shades  down,  or  shut- 
ters drawn  in  the  windows.  The  town  takes  a  firm 
hold  of  you  at  once,  and  the  people  are  pleasant- 
spoken  and  witty. 

What  matter  if  the  feudal  castle  has  put  on  a 
new  face  and  turned  into  a  "Palais  de  Justice"?  It 
still  presents  its  grim,  original  back  to  you,  and  to 
the  town  that  snuggles  up  behind  in  its  shelter ;  and 
the  broad,  open  square  in  front  rolls  away  to  an 
exquisite  series  of  terraces,  below  which  the  lovely 
valley  of  the  Loire  curves  away  on  either  hand  into 
infinity.  The  scene  is  unf orgetable :  the  lazy,  shim- 
mering serpent  coquetting  among  myriad  sandbanks  ; 
the  railroad  bridge  of  gold  crossing  it,  a  veritable 

[72] 


THE    GOLDEN    SIDE 


Roman  aqueduct  for  immortality  and  beauty ;  a  thou- 
sand tints  of  foliage  and  flower  gleaming  on  the 
terraces  and  the  wooded  slopes  on  the  distant  bank. 

The  most  unusual  building  in  town  is  the  Cathedral 
of  St.  Cyr,  one  of  the  two  double-apsed  cathedrals 
in  France.  Tradition  explains  prettily  why  it  is  dedi- 
cated to  St.  Cyrus,  and  why  the  saint  is  sculptured 
as  a  naked  child  riding  a  pig.  King  Charles,  it 
seems,  had  a  dream  in  which  a  naked  little  boy  ap- 
peared to  him  while  he  was  out  hunting,  and  promised 
that  if  his  majesty  would  clothe  him  he  would  save 
him  from  a  terrible  wild  boar.  The  king  promised, 
and  the  child,  none  other  than  the  saint  himself, 
mounted  the  ferocious  animal's  back,  and,  guiding 
him  by  the  tusks,  drove  him  straight  upon  the  king's 
lance.  And  the  Bishop  of  Nevers  guilelessly  explained 
that  when  the  little  saint  asked  for  "clothes"  he  meant 
the  rebuilding  of  the  church. 

From  an  architectural  standpoint,  the  eleventh 
century  church  of  St.  Etienne  is  more  worth  while,  a 
splendid  example  of  the  Romanesque  style  of  Au- 
vergne,  which  worked  its  way  up  into  the  Nivernais. 

However,  the  most  fascinating  object  in  town  is 
the  ancient  Porte  du  Croux,  a  great,  square  tower, 
with  all  the  loopholes  and  traces  of  medieval  defense 
so  picturesque  and  so  useless  now.  Dripping  with 
delicate  vines,  and  scarred  with  the  wounds  of  time, 
it  suggests  in  every  graceful  but  sturdy  line  the 
fourteenth  century,  of  which  it  is  so  beautiful  a  rep- 
resentative.   The  street  leading  through  it  winds  out- 

[73] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

ward  between  stout  walls  to  a  noble  barbican,  or 
outer  defense;  and  to  see  Nevers  at  its  best,  go 
through  them  both,  and  a  little  beyond,  of  a  June 
afternoon,  just  before  sunset.  There,  in  the  slowly 
fading  glory  of  the  scented  afternoon,  lies  the  town, 
its  roofs  and  pinnacles,  chateau  and  Cathedral,  gate- 
ways and  spires,  all  a  blaze  of  liquid  gold,  conjuring 
the  ghosts  of  another  day  to  people  anew  each  storied 
house  and  tower. 


[74] 


VII 


AMONG       TH£       DOMES 

AS  the  train  rolls  over  the  viaduct,  westward, 
the  view  of  Nevers,  proudly  cresting  its  hill 
in  the  background,  is  very  fine;  and  onward 
toward  Bourges,  purple  delphinium,  golden  butter- 
cups and  yellow  mustard,  flaming  scarlet  poppies  and 
brilliant  white  daisies  spangle  the  fields  with  color, 
the  most  colorful  landscape  in  France.  Great  white 
cattle  graze,  un startled  by  the  iron  horse,  in  nearby 
pastures ;  and  trees  of  a  dozen  species  checker  the 
landscape  with  their  lofty  hedges:  tilleuls  (lindens), 
maples,  spindling  poplars,  lofty  acacias,  thick-bodied 
horse-chestnuts ;  gray,  stuccoed  houses,  with  soft, 
warm,  reddish-brown  roofs,  peep  out  from  among 
the  trees,  often  with  pleasant  vines  spraying  over 
doors  and  windows. 

But  it  is  better  to  see  Bourges  in  connection  with 
Touraine,  and  to  go  on  southward  through  Auvergne 
from  Nevers.  Here  all  the  world  seems  going  to  be 
"cured"  at  the  baths  of  Riom,  Vichy,  Royat.  The 
trains  are  full  of  would-be  sick  folk,  who  dearly  love 
to  tell  just  where  and  how  they  imagine  themselves 
afflicted.     An  unusually  stout  young  Frenchwoman 

175} 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

tried  to  keep  us  out  of  two  compartments — why,  we 
could  not  understand.  She  had  her  father  in  one,  and 
held  a  seat  for  herself  in  each,  buzzing  back  and 
forth,  to  the  annoyance  of  every  one  in  both,  as  well 
as  the  people  standing  in  the  corridor  for  the  view — 
the  country  along  this  line  is  beautiful.  She  was 
continually  eating,  with  offensively  dirty  hands,  and 
then  going  to  the  door  of  the  next  compartment  to 
feed  her  father,  who  evidently  was  really  ill.  Our 
other  companions  were  two  very  healthy  and  cheerful 
Austrian  gentlemen  from  South  America,  but  bound 
for  Riom. 

Auvergne  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  districts 
in  France,  a  region  of  burnt-out  volcanoes  and  Ro- 
manesque churches.  There  is  probably  no  other 
section  anywhere  in  the  world  where  prehistoric  vol- 
canic action  can  be  so  easily  studied,  or  where  it 
has  presented  in  a  comparatively  small  space  such 
amazing  results,  in  the  form  of  great  chains  of  domes, 
so  perfectly  rounded,  and  so  regular  in  sequence, 
they  seem  artificial.  There  are  three  of  these  groups, 
and  Clermont-Ferrand,  formerly  the  capital  of  Au- 
vergne, stands  directly  before — on  the  east — the  cen- 
ter of  the  group,  called  the  Monts  Dome. 

The  whole  city,  even  the  cathedral,  is  built  solidly 
of  almost  black  lava  from  the  dead  volcanoes  near  by. 
Yet  it  is  anything  but  somber.  The  great  open 
square,  the  Place  Jaude,  which  occupies  low  ground 
at  one  side  of  the  city,  is  a  delight  to  the  eye,  and 
not  only  from  it  do  you  have  a  splendid  view  of 

[76] 


AMONG   THE    DOMES 


the  domes,  but  Interest  never  flags  for  lack  of  graphic 
scenes  among  the  people. 

The  very  first  morning  of  our  stay  in  Clermont 
a  thin,  reedy  piping  awoke  us  bright  and  early. 
Could  we  be  in  Sicily  again  ?  Surely  that  was  a  shep- 
herd's pipe!  Right  under  our  w^indows  stalked  the 
piper,  most  musical;  behind,  solemn  and  dignified, 
a  herd  of  beautifully  shiny  and  well-kept  goats, 
keeping  very  good  step  to  the  fluting.  Afterward  we 
found  the  goat-charmer  no  magician  at  all ;  his  whis- 
tle not  for  the  goats,  but  for  customers. 

Leading  hotels  and  cafes  surround  the  square,  some 
of  them  five  or  six  stories  high.  In  the  afternoon 
all  the  cafes  fill  the  sidewalk  with  chairs  and  tables ; 
but  one  goes  still  farther,  enclosing  It  with  awnings, 
and  having  an  excellent  string  band  and  vocalists. 
It  is  a  deHghtf ul  spot  after  a  hard  day's  sightseeing : 
the  tea  is  good,  the  square  a  rapidly  turning  kaleido- 
scope, and  the  goatherd  usually  somewhere  in  evi- 
dence with  his  sleek  pets.  One  afternoon,  as  he 
came  piping  past,  the  proprietress  came  to  the  side 
door  of  the  hotel  next  our  cafe,  and  called.  Imme- 
diately the  herder's  dog  singled  out  a  handsome 
black-and-white  goat  with  huge  horns  and  drove  her 
up  to  the  door.  Bit  by  bit  Madame  fed  her  a  great 
piece  of  bread,  while  the  man  squatted  behind  and 
milked,  and  the  dog  saw  that  none  of  the  other  goats 
wandered. 

A  day  or  so  later  another  and  somewhat  distress- 
ing cross-section  of  life  passed  under  our  windows 

[77] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

into  the  church  of  St.  Pierre-des-Minlmes,  at  the 
corner  of  the  Place.  An  acolyte  and  three  priests 
headed  the  little  procession :  a  rusty  old  hearse,  deco- 
rated with  two  or  three  dreadful  glass-bead  wreaths, 
inscribed  "Souvenir" ;  a  few  bareheaded  men  and  a 
handful  of  very  bored-looking  women — surely  there 
were  no  relatives  in  that  indifferent  cortege.  Upon 
the  casket  lay  four  big  bunches  of  flowers  wrapped 
in  coarse  paper.  The  master  of  ceremonies,  waiting 
importantly  at  the  church  in  a  cocked  hat,  tossed 
them  carelessly  to  either  side  of  the  door,  jerked 
the  pall  back  into  a  messy  heap,  and  motioned  the 
bearers  to  take  the  coffin  in.  It  was  a  poor  thing, 
pathetically  cheap  in  the  revealing  sunshine,  and  the 
men  handled  it  like  so  much  brick.  On  one  side  a 
blind  beggar,  whose  bald  crown  was  sunburned  a  deep 
tan,  held  out  his  hat  to  it ;  on  the  other,  a  paralytic, 
steadied  by  his  daughter,  also  begged  for  alms  from 
ears  forever  deaf. 

How  short  a  shrift  is  given  the  poor,  in  either  life 
or  death.  The  sad  little  crowd  filed  blinking  out 
almost  before  we  thought  the  service  well  begun. 
Backing  his  horse  up  to  the  curb  like  a  coalman, 
the  driver  stood  at  his  head  while  the  casket  bumped 
noisily  in,  and  the  priests,  evidently  in  a  hurry,  led 
the  way  off  at  a  smart  pace,  while  Life  in  the  Place 
flowed  on,  unheeding  and  unceasing,  totally  indiffer- 
ent to  its  twin  brother.  Death. 

After  the  color  of  the  city,  its  most  striking 
feature  is  the  way  in  which  some  of  its  streets  mount 

[78] 


AMONG  THE    DOMES 


the  hill  upon  incHned  embankments.  Cresting  the 
highest  point  is  the  stern,  somber  Cathedral,  a  fine 
Gothic  building,  begun  in  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth 
century  and  never  finished,  though  in  the  nineteenth 
the  eminent  architect,  M.  Viollet-le-Duc,  completed 
the  western  fa9ade  with  its  two  towers.  The  high 
altar,  bishop's  throne  and  choir  railings  were  also 
designed  by  him,  and  testify  not  only  to  his  skill, 
but  also  to  the  fact  that  good  work  could  be  done 
in  the  nineteenth  century. 

But  it  is  the  Auvergnat  church  we  care  most  to 
see  here,  a  development  of  the  Romanesque.  An 
important  and  typical  example  of  this  native  archi- 
tecture is  the  church  of  Notre  Dame  du  Port.  To 
reach  it  we  pass  through  the  Place  Poterne,  a  pleas- 
ant, shady  square  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  whence 
fine  views  of  the  Monts  Dome  spread  away  for  miles. 
There  is  no  rush  or  bustle  of  life  here,  as  in  the 
busy  Place  Jaude;  the  Poterne  is  rather  a  quiet, 
homely  sitting-room  for  all  the  people  of  the  neigh- 
borhood— nurses  with  their  young  charges,  children, 
old  folks  who  would  sit  to  gossip  a  bit  on  the  stone 
benches.  One  afternoon  I  caught  two  of  them — dear 
old  souls — in  caps  and  shawls  and  neat  black  dresses, 
knitting  and  chatting,  and  making  a  charming  genre 
picture  if  ever  there  was  one.'  Before  I  could  photo- 
graph them  they  saw  the  camera,  and  though  they 
tried  to  look  perfectly  unconscious,  one  straightened 
her  cap  coquettishly,  and  her  companion  visibly 
stiffened. 

[791 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 


Down  one  of  the  long  inclines,  and  through  a  nar- 
row street  or  two,  we  come  at  last  to  the  old  church. 
It  is  quite  small,  and  the  choir  is  its  most  prominent 
feature,  with  four  fine  little  chapels  and  as  many 
buttresses  alternately  radiating  from  it.  The  tran- 
septs are  also  flanked  by  small  apses,  which  give 
them  a  very  original  appearance. 

Vercingetorix,  the  hero  of  that  last  great  conflict 
in  52  B.C.,  in  which  Caesar  battered  the  truculent 
Gallic  tribes  into  submission,  is  commemorated  in  this, 
his  native  province,  by  the  broad,  tree-bordered  Ave- 
nue Vercingetorix,  out  near  the  attractive  public 
gardens,  and  in  the  Place  Jaude  by  a  bronze  eques- 
trian statue  which  is  full  of  vigor  and  spirit,  if  not 
exactly  the  highest  form  of  art. 

From  Clermont  up  to  the  summit  of  the  Puy  de 
Dome  is  an  eight-mile  trip,  negotiated  by  carriage, 
or  preferably  by  the  crazy  little  steam  tram,  that 
gives  you  such  an  excellent  opportunity  to  study  the 
people  when  they  go  a- junketing.  We  left  Clermont 
in  sunshine  and  arrived  in  a  driving  rain,  gale,  and 
fog  as  impenetrable  as  a  rubber  blanket. 

After  a  few  moments  of  tooting  out  through  the 
suburbs  the  tram  emerges  into  a  marvelous  rolling 
country,  the  foothills  of  the  dead  volcanoes  that 
sweep  about  Clermont  in  lofty  semicircles.  Behind 
and  below  appears  the  city  on  the  hill,  the  cathedral 
very  prominent  on  its  height,  but  dead  black  against 
the  green  of  hill  and  swale.  The  track  winds  in- 
terminably, now  in  cuts,  now  along  scarped  ways 

[80] 


AMONG  THE   DOMES 


where  the  vivid  yellow  gorse  (genet)  spatters  the 
rock  in  great  thickets,  in  striking  contrast  with 
richly  colored,  black-striped  violets  as  big  as  pansies, 
and  innumerable  poppies.  As  we  go  higher,  the 
panorama  of  the  valley  expands  into  great  squares 
of  plowed  and  cultivated  land,  patches  of  gorse  Hke 
the  Yorkshire  moorlands,  and  the  domes  themselves, 
huge,  greenish-black  sugar-loaves,  an  endless  series 
of  smooth  arcs,  fading  here  and  there  into  the  loftier 
curves  of  the  distant  ranges. 

At  La  Baraque  we  changed  cars,  for  no  apparent 
reason,  and  had  a  pleasant  little  illustration  of  the 
charming  manners  of  the  true  French  touriste.  A 
large,  powerful  young  woman,  built  on  ideal  lines  for 
a  New  York  subway  crush,  drove  her  way  through 
the  more  leisurely  passengers  and  reserved  about  a 
third  of  the  new  car.  Shrieking  at  the  top  of  her 
voice  for  ''PapaT'  ^'Mamanr  "LouiseT  how  she 
glared  at  those  who  tried  to  pass  that  outstretched 
arm  or  seemed  inclined  to  hurdle  it ! 

Above  Baraque,  the  view  of  the  domes  against  the 
violet-black  and  gray  of  an  approaching  storm  was 
the  most  majestic  vista  of  the  kind  it  has  ever  been 
my  good  fortune  to  behold :  those  gre'at,  round,  green 
heads,  so  many  titanic  beehives,  streaked  with  black, 
with  red  earth,  with  strips  of  grain,  and  the  furious 
downpour  misting  one  after  another  out  of  sight. 
The  air  grew  chilly,  the  wind  howled  amjong  the 
peaks ;  the  storm  was  upon  us. 

There  are  two  little  restaurants  on  the  bleak  sum- 

[8i] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

mit  of  the  Puy,  and  we  made  for  one,  with  the  wind 
at  our  backs.  Holding  our  hats  tightly,  staggering 
over  the  rough  lava,  blown  almost  inside  out,  we 
struggled  across  to  its  comforting  warmth  and  dry- 
ness. And  what  a  crowd  it  was  that  stamped  in,  all 
French  but  ourselves,  laughing,  flapping  useless  um- 
brellas, and  all  talking  at  top  speed  and  pitch  while 
shaking  the  rain  from  their  coats.  The  one  waiter, 
an  insignificant  little  specimen,  with  red  hair  and 
blue  eyes,  and  no  nose,  backed  up  against  the  wall 
and  tried  to  smile,  but  only  looked  scared  instead. 
The  hulking  female  Stentor  added  to  the  confusion 
by  making  the  windows  rattle  with  her  demands  for 
dejeuner.  A  genial  little  old  man,  who  made  a  harm- 
less jest  of  everything,  and  kept  everybody  in  a  gale 
of  laughter,  twisted  his  fierce,  white  moustachios 
and  seconded  her,  and  "Charly,"  a  young  man  with 
him,  beat  upon  a  plate  with  a  spoon.  The  Stentor, 
finding  that  there  were  Americans  present,  shouted, 
"I  spik  Angleesh  !  I  spik  Angleesh !"  and  proceeded 
to  give  an  unprintable  illustration.  Those  of  the 
French  who  understood  her  seemed  to  consider  it  a 
royal  joke. 

Luncheon  over — it  was  not  so  bad — notwithstand- 
ing the  continued  gale,  rain  and  fog,  we  all  clambered 
over  the  top  of  the  Puy,  dutifully  looked  out  through 
the  windows»of  the  observatory — from  which,  in  clear 
weather,  the  view  is  magnificent — explored  the  ruins 
of  the  Temple  of  Mercury,  deciding  that  the  guide- 
book  descriptions   of   it   are  quite  inadequate,   and 

[82I 


AMONG   THE    DOMES 


finally  came  down  the  circuitous  route  in  the  tram, 
bitterly  disappointed  at  missing  the  view.  The  expe- 
rience, however,  was  very  well  worth  while.  Blaise 
Pascal,  Clermont-Ferrand's  most  celebrated  son,  had 
more  patience  than  we,  for  he  stayed  long  enough 
on  the  Puy  to  make  those  memorable  experiments  in 
weighing  the  atmosphere. 

We  did  not  go  up  the  Puy  again.  Though  there 
was  plenty  of  sunshine  after  that  in  Clermont,  a 
single  glance  was  always  enough  to  show  the  useless- 
ness  of  piercing  the  rolling  cloud  of  vapor  that 
continued  to  play  fast  and  loose  with  the  Dome. 
So  we  confined  our  wanderings  to  those  odd  corners 
of  the  city  still  unexplored  and  to  the  little  neigh- 
boring town  of  Royat.  The  huge  bath  establish- 
ment at  the  end  of  the  trolley  line  we  passed  by — 
a  single  stroll  through  its  too  formal  and  florid  gar- 
dens was  enough  to  "cure"  us.  Instead  we  toiled  on 
up  the  steep  hill,  into  an  atmosphere  wholly  different 
from  the  air  of  the  newer  low  town. 

Old  Royat's  chief  attraction  is  a  curious  battle- 
mented  church,  the  successor  of  the  seventh  century 
fortified  church  established  there  by  a  company  of 
Benedictine  nuns.  Here  the  stout  sisterhood,  should 
an  enemy  approach,  could  give  an  excellent  account 
of  themselves  until  male  help  arrived.  There  are  no 
high  roofs  or  apses  or  other  means  by  which  the 
church  could  be  easily  stormed ;  but  thick  stone 
battlements  all  around  the  top,  machicolations — or, 
as  Freeman  calls  them,  "murdering-holes" — through 

[831 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

which  you  can  easily  imagine  the  brave  sisters  pour- 
ing boiling  water  down  upon  the  attacker,  or  smash- 
ing him  with  heavy  rocks.  The  conventual  life  in 
those  early  days  meant  greater  freedom  than  at  home, 
it  is  true,  yet  it  must  also  have  required  genuine 
consecration  on  the  part  of  those  devoted  women  to 
build  away  up  here  in  the  mountains,  in  the  midst 
of  such  alarms  that  their  church  as  well  as  their 
conventual  enclosure  must  be  turned  into  a  strong 
fortress. 

Old  houses,  not  a  line  of  which  appears  either 
strictly  horizontal  or  perpendicular,  crowd  up  close 
to  the  church  now  on  two  sides ;  on  the  other  two 
a  dirt  square,  flanked  by  more  queer  houses,  with  a 
dilapidated  fountain  in  the  middle.  On  the  corner 
nearest  the  church  the  house  has  become  a  debit  des 
tins — in  plain  English,  a  groggery  of  the  lowest 
type.  Like  the  other  houses,  it  is  built  of  dark- 
gray  lava  and  the  rough  stone  of  the  locahty,  and 
all  look  as  though  they  might  be  dens  of  the  deepest 
iniquity.  But  the  people  all  about  seemed  the  per- 
sonification of  the  harmless  and  the  commonplace: 
women  with  market  baskets  and  babies,  a  man  carry- 
ing fresh  bread  in  a  latticework  scaffold  on  his  back 
and  head,  an  old  crone  washing  lettuce  in  a  rat-trap- 
like cage  in  the  fountain,  children  and  dogs  and 
starveling  cats. 

Up  a  black  side  street  we  ran  into  a  little  group 
of  old  women.  One,  whose  face  was  a  perfect 
palimpsest  whereon  the  fading  lines   of  spirit  and 

[84] 


AMONG   THE    DOMES 


beauty  still  shone  through  the  superscription  of  age 
and  privation,  was  selling  strawberries.  "How  much, 
madame?"  I  asked  her. 

^'Whatever  you  like,  sir,"  she  mumbled  toothlessly. 
"Hold  your  hat,  and  I  will  give  you  good  measure." 

Back  in  another  part  of  town  is  the  mill  where 
the  lovely  semi-precious  stones  displayed  in  so  many 
of  the  shops  of  Clermont  are  cut  into  shape — ame- 
thysts, exquisite  pink  and  yellow  quartzes,  and  won- 
derfully colored  agates.  All  these  stones  are  mined 
nearby,  among  the  domes,  and  ground  into  every 
imaginable  sort  of  bead,  ring,  pin,  talisman,  paper- 
weight, and  so  on,  by  big  grindstones  and  buff -wheels 
worked  by  water-power.  The  results  are  beautiful, 
but  not  cheap. 

The  road  which  forms  the  steep  ascent  from  the 
lower  town  runs  above  the  burbling  stream  that  turns 
the  wheels  of  a  big  laundry  glued  to  the  side  of 
the  gorge,  that  rises,  along  part  of  the  way  at  least, 
fully  one  hundred  feet  higher  than  the  water.  Below, 
the  black  cliffs  are  pitted  with  dark  grottoes,  where 
peasant  women  splash  at  their  soapy  washing,  in  defi- 
ance of  the  modern  mangles  above.  And  all  the 
way,  up  or  down,  you  hear  the  susurrant  music  of 
the  stream,  singing  softly  to  the  roses  and  clematis 
nodding  in  garden  and  hedge  above  its  rocky  bed. 


[85] 


VIII 

THE       CITY       OF       MANY       BRIDGES 

THE  day  we  made  the  trip  to  Lyon  the  hills 
were  all  veiled  in  mist,  that  occasionally  lifted 
enough  to  let  us  see  the  more  distant  moun- 
tains, so  blue  they  were  almost  black,  against  a 
dull  violet  sky.  The  rolling  plain  is  full  of  farms ; 
the  hills,  cultivated  all  the  way  to  the  top,  rippling 
with  seas  of  waving  grain,  through  which  the  poppies 
dance  their  fiery  fandango.  The  houses  are  usually 
of  rough  brown  stone,  often,  with  their  barns  and 
partly  roofed-over  enclosing  walls  for  sheds  and 
storerooms,  forming  a  compound,  much  as  in  Spain. 
It  is  worthy  of  note  that  here  in  France  the  walls 
and  houses  spout  greenery,  instead  of  flowers  as  in 
Sicily.  While  of  course  this  robs  the  country  of 
a  great  deal  of  color  and  liveliness,  the  green  is, 
nevertheless,  restful  to  the  jaded  eye.  Soon  the 
Allier  appears,  its  shallow  stream  filled  with  broad 
sandbanks,  little  islands,  full  of  low  trees  and  scrub, 
whose  leaves  are  blown  by  the  friendly  gale  until 
their  under  sides  show  as  gray  as  gray  can  be ; 
poplars  along  the  banks,  beheaded  willows — nothing 
but  stumps  about  ten  feet  high — spraying  foliage 

[86] 


CITY    OF    MANY    BRIDGES 

out  in  a  verdant  shower  from  each  mutilated  trunk; 
stone  farmhouses  with  mossy  roofs  of  red  tile  turned 
almost  black  in  places. 

Cherry-trees  that  bloom  in  June  like  a  flower- 
garden  border  the  tracks  near  Lyon ;  here,  too,  gar- 
dens come  to  within  a  few  feet  of  the  rails,  full  of 
potatoes  in  blossom,  with  poppies  mixed  in  between, 
and  all  sorts  of  other  garden-truck.  Now  we  strike 
the  Rhone,  a  splendid,  cold,  gray  river,  that  really 
merits  the  name  of  river,  flowing  between  lofty  banks 
dotted  with  villas  and  farms,  and  bordered  with 
poplars  and  other  trees ;  and  then,  suddenly,  Lyon 
appears  in  the  distance,  the  church  of  Notre  Dame 
de  Fourviere  standing  on  a  hill  that  commands  the 
whole  town,  giving  it  the  air  of  a  truly  medieval 
stronghold. 

It  is  an  imposing  city,  the  third  in  France,  the 
second  in  commercial  importance,  lying  between  two 
great  navigable  rivers,  and  spanning  them  with 
twenty- two  bridges,  nine  over  the  sullen  Rhone,  thir- 
teen over  the  dashing  Saone.  A  university  town, 
headquarters  of  an  army  corps,  center  of  half  the 
entire  supply  of  manufactured  silk  in  the  world,  and 
one  of  the  handsomest  cities  of  the  present  day,  Lyon 
is  a  perfect  whirl  of  activity,  its  own  stream  of  life 
flowing  as  swiftly  as  the  rivers  that  lave  it  with 
many  waters.  Its  women  are  among  the  handsomest 
and  best  dressed  in  France;  its  men  are  tall  and 
strong  and  prepossessing;  its  children  numerous  and 
beautiful.     In  a  word,  the  city  takes  a  mighty  hold 

[871 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

upon  you,  and  you  thrill  to  its  charm,  full  of  enthusi- 
asm for  its  beauty  and  activity. 

And  it  was  great  in  the  old  days.  Marcus  Aurelius, 
Caracalla,  Claudius,  Geta — emperors  all — ^were  born 
here;  so  were  Saints  Irenaeus  and  Ambrose.  In  mod- 
ern times  it  continued  to  give  hostages  to  fame — 
Delorme,  the  architect;  Ampere,  the  electrician  and 
physicist ;  Flandrin,  Meissonier  and  Puvis  de  Cha- 
vannes,  the  painters — a  galaxy  of  stars  of  the  first 
magnitude.  The  city  kept  its  balance  during  the 
revolutionary  madness,  and  the  Convention  con- 
demned it  to  demolition.  Powder  and  cannon-balls 
were  to  blow  it  out  of  existence;  but,  fortunately, 
before  the  work  could  be  completed  Robespierre  met 
his  richly  deserved  fate,  and,  under  Napoleon,  Lyon 
crept,  phoenix-like,  up  from  her  ashes  into  an  epoch 
of  unexampled  prosperity  and  civic  beauty. 

The  great  Place  Bellecoeur,  the  fashionable  prom- 
enade of  the  town,  is  a  delight  to  the  eye,  a  happy 
combination  of  Central  Park  and  the  Plaza  Cataluna. 
It  is  a  vast,  dirt-floored  square,  with  a  wide  strip 
of  flowering  park  along  one  side,  containing  two 
ponds,  on  one  of  which  idle  two  black  swans,  on  the 
other  two  white  ones.  All  around  the  edges  chairs 
are  set,  and  rented  at  two  cents  apiece  to  whomso- 
ever will ;  and  scattered  about  in  convenient  locations 
are  rest-houses,  a  restaurant — the  Maison  Doree — 
a  cafe,  bandstand,  and  so  on.  By  all  means  come 
here  in  the  afternoon  to  take  tea  in  the  shadow  of 
the  restaurant,  while  the  band  plays,  and  watch  the 

[88] 


CITY    OF   MANY   BRIDGES 

thousands  who  every  day  sit  or  walk  about  here, 
some  sewing",  some  reading,  some  watching  the  chil- 
dren play,  which  they  do  very  prettily,  at  all  sorts 
of  games,  even  bare-legged  digging  in  the  dirt,  as 
at  the  beach.  One  very  popular  feature  is  the  man 
with  the  tiniest  and  sleekest  of  donkeys  and  carts, 
who  takes  the  children  for  rides,  calling  out  like 
the  train  hands,  *'En  voiture!  En  voiture,  s'  vous 
plait r^  until  his  cart  is  full  of  the  dainty  passengers, 
and  the  wise  little  donkey  looks  them  over  with  gentle 
eyes  before  he  starts  sedately  around  the  busy 
enclosure. 

The  night-life  in  Lyon  reminded  me  very  much 
of  night  in  Madrid.  Every  shop  is  closed,  every 
cafe  at  full  blast,  and  all  the  sidewalks  are  jammed. 
The  majority  of  the  people  seemed  eminently  respect- 
able folk,  taking  their  ease  after  toil  in  the  chilly 
June  evening  by  eating  ices  and  drinking  iced  bever- 
ages, reading  newspapers  on  the  cold  stone  benches 
under  lamp-posts,  or  listening  gravely  to  the  band 
music,  which  lasts  until  half-past  ten  in  the  Place 
Bellecoeur.  The  principal  streets  are  almost  as 
brilliant  as  Broadway,  illuminated  by  private  enter- 
prise— cafes,  shops,  and  so  on.  Many  of  the  cafes, 
after  the  popular  Paris  style,  have  singing  or 
dancing  as  attractions.  At  one  I  noticed  a  German 
with  a  pocket  dictionary  strike  up  a  flirtation  with 
a  Frenchwoman,  who  vastly  enjoyed  his  clumsy 
efforts  at  conversation  by  thumbing  his  diction- 
ary and  pointing  out  the  words.      In  a  minute  the 

[89] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

street  was  enjoying  it,  too,  and  the  waiters  had  to 
bring  out  extra  chairs  and  tables  to  accommodate 
the  crowd. 

In  the  Place  a  group  of  young  men  became  inter- 
ested in  a  girl  who  had  stopped  to  fasten  up  her 
garter,  and  though  she  had  a  man  and  another  girl 
with  her,  they  circled  about,  and  refused  to  beheve 
it  had  come  down  until  she  reluctantly  showed  it 
around  her  ankle.  Then  they  all  wanted  to  help 
her  replace  it.  When  the  fun  had  gone  far  enough 
they  voluntarily  ran  off.  About  fifty  feet  away  they 
looked  back,  but  the  girl  had  it  fixed  safely  by  that 
time,  and,  swishing  up  her  skirts  like  a  flash,  cried, 
*^Voila,  messieurs T'  and  turned  back  to  her  laughing 
companions,  the  man — he  looked  as  if  he  were  her 
brother — evidently  approving  her  chic.  This  episode 
was  very  French. 

From  the  Bellcoeur  you  see  the  church  of  Notre 
Dame  de  Fourviere,  high  above  the  Saone.  Keep  a 
watch  on  it  day  by  day,  and  the  first  time  the  fickle 
weather  is  perfectly  clear  go  right  up,  no  matter 
what  you  may  have  planned  for  that  day,  for  the 
view  is  the  finest  anywhere  about,  and  Lyon  is  a 
city  of  many  moods.  The  quickest  and  best  way 
is  to  take  the  funicular,  which  lahds  you  before  the 
great  church,  a  most  astonishing  hodge-podge  in  the 
modernized  Byzantine  style.  The  interior  is  gor- 
geous with  mosaics,  painting  and  gilding.  But  the 
view  is  the  thing.  Around  the  outside  of  the  apse 
a  broad,  semicircular  gallery  or  terrace  commands 

[90] 


CITY    OF   MANY    BRIDGES 

a  prospect  almost  as  extended  as  from  the  lofty 
tower  above,  a  hundred-mile  panorama,  in  the  center 
of  which  lies  the  city,  at  the  bottom  of  the  vast 
surrounding  bowl — the  snow-capped  Alps.  Before 
you,  ninety-six  miles  as  the  crow  flies,  towers  Mt. 
Blanc ;  to  the  right  more  mountains ;  and  on  the  left 
the  valleys  of  Rhone  and  Saone,  the  rivers  glinting 
like  burnished  platinum  in  the  crisp  sunlight. 

After  the  view,  down  the  hillside  again,  through 
the  shady  garths  of  the  little  bosket  of  the  Sacre 
Coeur,  along  inclined  walks  that  zigzag  from  one 
picturesque  flight  of  dirt  steps  to  another.  Birds 
fill  the  trees  with  song ;  a  fountain  tinkles  pleasantly ; 
the  sunlight,  streaming  through  the  branches,  makes 
a  brilliant  patchwork  of  the  warm,  moist  earth,  and 
the  air  is  redolent  with  woodsy  fragrance.  Small 
terra-cotta  monuments  of  the  Dolorous  and  Joyous 
Mysteries,  and  granite  Stations  of  the  Cross,  dot 
the  path  all  the  way  through  the  miniature  wood. 
Beyond,  you  go  down  the  Montee  des  Chazeaux,  a 
street-stairway  S42  steps  long.  Up  this  toilsome 
way  streams  a  steady  procession  of  men,  boys  and 
young  women,  carrying  "breads"  in  great  wheels, 
through  which  they  thrust  their  arms,  or  in  great 
circles  difficult  to  clasp  and  carry.  Truly,  some 
noted  baker  must  have  his  shop  at  the  bottom  of 
this  high  flight.  The  way  is  precipitous,  but  care- 
fully paved,  with  a  gutter  down  the  center,  the 
drainage  stream  making  a  thin  pencil  of  water  that 
glistens  against  the  dull  stone  background.     And  at 

[91I 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

the  foot  behold  the  bakery,  its  windows  full  of  vastly 
tempting  pastry  and  the  great  loaves. 

And  also  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  is  the  Cathedral 
of  St.  Jean,  showing  a  remarkable  mixture  of  the 
styles  of  this  particular  part  of  the  country.  The 
west  front,  with  its  vigorous  carving,  and  the  nave, 
are  Northern  Gothic  of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth 
centuries ;  but  in  the  Romanesque  choir  the  flat  ar- 
cades, with  their  fluted  pilasters,  are  characteristic- 
ally Burgundian,  deriving  clearly  from  the  Roman 
V^gateways  of  Autun.  To  the  right  of  the  fa9ade 
is  the  long  low,  battered  eleventh  century  fa9ade  of 
the  Manecanterie,  the  chapel  where  choristers  used 
to  greet  the  dawn ;  hence  its  name,  mane  cantare — to 
sing  at  sunrise.  No  such  service  dignifies  the  ancient 
chapel  now.  But  we  did  see  the  school  of  the  Petits 
Clercs  de  Lyon  coming  out,  pasty-faced  little  fellows 
in  black  smocks.  These  dreadful  "overalls"  always 
give  me  a  shock.  Why  dress  one's  child  as  if  going 
to  a  funeral,  or  in  filial  mourning,  especially  when 
there  are  other  dark  colors  that  show  dirt  and  dam- 
age less?  It  takes  a  deal  of  insight  to  find  charm 
under  such  a  repellent  exterior  as  a  black  smock. 

The  banks  of  the  Saone,  lined  with  public  wash- 
boats,  are  always  lively  and  picturesque.  One  morn- 
ing I  found  there  the  biggest  market  and  rag-fair 
I  had  ever  seen,  mostly  a  sale  of  necessities  and 
eatables,  where  thrifty  housewives  came  to  get  their 
household  supplies  and  squabble  fiercely  over  the 
last  sou's  worth  of  bread,  cheese,  garhc,  meats,  fish, 

[92] 


CITY   OF   MANY   BRIDGES 

flowers,  fancy  delicacies  in  game  and  legumes,  new 
dresses,  stockings,  shoes,  hats,  ribbons,  garters,  bolts 
of  cloth  or  of  silk,  underwear,  notions,  children's 
garments,  and  so  on,  ad  libitum.  Here  was  a  poor, 
flea-bitten  little  yellow  spaniel,  made  to  wear  spec- 
tacles and  a  hat,  while  his  prosperous  Gargantua 
of  a  master  and  very  dirty  mistress  "barked,"  demon- 
strated and  sold  a  truly  "magic  cleaner."  Would 
that  they  had  demonstrated  it  on  themselves !  Yon- 
der, a  cripple  squatted  beside  an  opened  umbrella  full 
of  colored  elastic  bands;  farther  on,  a  patriarch 
bellowed  of  his  maps,  a  blindfolded  woman  posed 
as  a  mind-reader,  answering  questions  and  giving 
mystic  numbers,  and  so  on.  The  jam  was  terrific,  the 
weather  warm,  and  the  people  inclined  to  behave  very 
independently,  with  the  result  that  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  unnecessary  and  unusual  butting  and  shoving. 
The  meat-stalls  were  too  horrible  for  description ; 
they  turned  the  long  quay  into  a  stinking  shambles, 
a  literal  Via  Putrida. 

Hunting  for  a  restaurant,  rather  than  go  back 
to  the  hotel  for  luncheon  and  have  to  start  all  over 
again  afterward,  we  found  the  shabby,  humble  little 
Cafe  de  la  Grotte,  whose  tablecloths  were  w^ine- 
spotted  and  whose  patrons  were  not  exactly  chic. 
But  the  food  was  good,  the  cooking  excellent,  and 
the  crazy  stucco  grotto  in  the  middle  of  the  sanded 
floor  spouted  water  as  clear  as  any  fountain  in  a 
costly  hotel.  Most  surprising  was  the  fact  that 
here,   where  we   least   expected   it,   we   could   order 

[93l 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

a  la  carte,  and  need  pay  only  for  what  was  served. 
In  most  French  restaurants  the  meals  are  intermi- 
nable table  d'hote  affairs,  with  the  same  soup,  fish, 
omelette,  meats,  salad  and  dessert.  If  you  insist 
on  being  a  savage,  and  ordering  from  the  list,  you 
pay  for  the  whole  meal  just  the  same.  A  la  carte 
apparently  means  nothing  to  the  average  French 
restaurateur.  As  for  the  soup^  there  is  an  amiable 
legend  to  the  effect  that  a  Frenchwoman  will  make 
soup  of  what  her  American  sister  throws  away. 
After  you  have  dined  a  few  times  outside  the  finest 
hostelries  you  are  sorry  the  Frenchwoman  didn't 
throw  it  away,  too.  For  weeks  at  a  time  we  saw  no 
soup  but  sublimated  dishwater,  full  of  bits  of  sour 
bread.  Both  ends  of  the  meals  left  us  longing. 
While  the  Frenchmen  around  us  devoured  platefuls 
of  moist  white  cheese  swathed  in  sugar,  that  turns 
an  American  stomach  to  see,  how  we  hungered  for 
a  good  old-fashioned  wedge  of  pie,  or  even  the  "poor- 
man's"  rice  pudding! 

Who  would  recognize  in  the  deep,  sullen,  gray 
Rhone,  on  the  other  side  of  the  city,  the  sparkling, 
sapphire  stream  that  fairly  leaps  out  from  the  Lake 
of  Geneva  and  later  dashes,  in  clear  emerald,  down 
through  the  Alpine  foothills.'^  Here  it  is  spanned 
by  many  a  busy  bridge,  and  its  broad  quays,  below 
the  level  of  the  street,  are  lined  with  bowling-grounds, 
where  men  and  boys  are  always  playing,  while  an 
interested  audience  hangs  over  the  street-wall  above. 
Across  the  river,  on  the  eastern  bank,  is  the  impos- 

[94] 


CITY    OF   MANY   BRIDGES 

ing  group  of  the  University  buildings ;  farther  along, 
the  Prefecture,  a  handsome  nineteenth  century  Re- 
naissance structure,  in  which  the  assassinated  Presi- 
dent Carnot  breathed  his  last ;  and  still  farther  along, 
northward,  the  fashionable  modern  residence  quarter 
of  Les  Brotteaux,  adjoined  by  a  fine  park  and  lake. 

Lyon  is  full  of  splendid  streets,  broad  highways 
of  which  any  city  might  well  be  proud.  The  central 
town,  between  the  two  rivers,  is  full  of  interest,  and 
though  there  is  little  of  real  architectural  value,  there 
are  large  and  dignified  public  buildings,  great  monu- 
ments, statues  and  fountains  in  the  squares,  and 
any  number  of  churches.  The  most  distinctive  is 
the  Romanesque  St.  Martin  d'Ainay,  nine  hundred 
years  old,  its  facade  incrusted  with  colored  stones, 
which  give  it  a  bizarre  effect,  like  that  of  the  Au- 
vergnat  churches.  The  west  fa9ade  is  divided  by  a 
single  square  tower  with  three  rows  of  narrow  little 
windows  above  the  door  and  four  acroteria  at  the 
base  of  the  squat  pj^ramid  that  crowns  it.  Four 
large  antique  granite  columns  support  the  low,  square 
tower  over  the  crossing,  and  a  priest  told  us  that 
they  were  from  a  temple  of  Augustus,  and  anciently 
believed  to  have  "fallen  from  heaven." 

Next  in  importance  to  the  Place  Bellecoeur  is  the 
Place  des  Terreaux,  so  called  from  the  terreaux,  or 
heaps  of  earth,  that  had  to  be  removed  to  allow 
for  its  construction.  At  one  end  is  a  monumental 
fountain  by  Bartholdi — we  owe  him  the  Goddess  of 
the   Bay   in  New   York   Harbor — representing   the 

[95] 


\ 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

chariot  of  the  springs  and  rivers  on  its  way  to  Ocean. 
The  basin  is  semicircular,  with  a  low,  surrounding 
seat,  where  you  gladly  pause  to  watch  the  steady 
ebb  and  flow  of  the  crowds  through  the  busy  square, 
or  to  feed  the  pigeons  that  bathe  and  flutter  about 
fearlessly.  Suddenly  all  the  springs  and  rivers  seem 
to  be  coming  your  way — on  the  wings  of  a  playful 
gust  of  wind. 

Here,  in  1794,  the  guillotine,  working  its  fastest, 
proved  so  slow  for  the  number  of  citizens  selected 
to  die  that  the  blood-stained  revolutionists  took  to 
powder   and   grape   as   a  lot  quicker.      Facing  the 
square  are  the  seventeenth  century  Hotel  de  Ville  and 
the  eighteenth  century  Palais  des  Arts.     The  latter 
formerly  belonged  to  the  Dames  Benedictines — their 
refectory  can  still  be  seen — and  the  courtyard  inside 
is  now  a  tiny  public  park.     The  building  itself  con- 
tains an  important  and  admirably  arranged  museum. 
Not  far  distant,  in  the  Palais  de  Bourse,  or  Stock 
Exchange,  a  striking  Renaissance  edifice,  on  the  beau- 
tiful rue  de  la  Repubhque,  is  another  valuable  col- 
lection, the  Musee  Historique  des  Tissus.     It  is  a 
vivid  exposition  of  the  art  of  weaving,  painting  and 
embroidering  silk,  velvet  and  other  stuff's,  from  its 
infancy   to   the  present,   all   over   the   world.      The 
display  is  dazzling,  and  the  Lyonnais  products  easily 
hold  their  own  among  the  best  works  of  China,  India, 
Persia,  Japan,  and  other  countries  famous  for  their 
weavers   and   craftsmen.      Tissue-working  began  in 
Lyon  under  Louis  Quatorze,  we  were  told,  and  a  long 

[96] 


CITY    OF   MANY    BRIDGES 

series  of  specimens,  of  both  the  work  and  the  ma- 
chines that  wove  and  weave  it,  make  the  exhibit 
very  graphic. 

Just  back  of  the  Bourse,  in  front  of  the  church 
of  St.  Bonaventure,  I  leveled  my  camera  one  after- 
noon at  an  old  candlewoman  by  the  door,  an  espe- 
cially kindly  and  pleasing  type.  But  she  was  too 
quick  for  me,  and  springing  up  with  astonishing 
agility,  turned  her  back.  When  I  went  over  and 
asked  her  coaxingly  if  she  would  sit  down  again 
in  the  same  position,  she  answered  angrily:  "You 
can't  talk  to  me  as  if  I  were  an  ass !  If  you  want 
a  picture,  come  back  to-morrow  morning,  and  photo- 
graph the  mister  who  sells  the  flowers  I" 


[97] 


IX 


GRENOBLE,     THE     GRANDE     CHARTREUSE 
AND      CHAMBERY 

WE  intended  to  go  down  the  Rhone  by  boat 
from  Lyon,  but  to  our  disappointment 
found  that  the  boat  service  had  been  dis- 
continued. As  we  had  been  down  by  rail  before,  we 
cut  across  country  to  Grenoble,  instead.  And  glad 
we  were,  for  it  is  a  child's  picture-book  country,  with 
little  towns  on  slight  swales,  rolling  fields  of  grain 
dotted  with  poppies,  and  full  of  trees  that  look  from 
the  train  as  though  Kate  Greenaway  had  made  them. 
Then  comes  a  lovely  little  lake,  so  long  and  narrow, 
so  rippled  and  winding,  that  it  seems  a  river  instead. 
In  the  distance  the  gray  crags  of  Dauphine  look 
like  misty  snow-peaks,  vague  and  uncertain,  though 
they  are  only  bare  and  scraggy  limestone.  Olives 
begin  to  appear  along  the  way;  and  almost  every 
station  along  the  line  has  a  quaint  stone-curbed  well, 
usually  with  an  old  oaken  bucket  beside  it.  A  poet 
could  find  plenty  of  both  material  and  inspiration 
here. 

We  passed  a  tiny  hamlet  about  milking-time,  and 
across  the  lush  fields  the  spotted  kine  plodded  home- 
ward at  the  hest  of  a  barefoot  boy,  who  whistled 

[98I 


GRENOBLE 


with  shrill  cheeriness  as  he  switched  at  the  flowers. 
The  westering  sun  splashed  dull  wall  and  gleaming 
field  with  gold;  long  shadows  barred  the  road  with 
purple;  the  houses  lay  still  and  peaceful  in  their 
emerald  frames,  with  here  and  there  a  man  smoking 
contentedly  in  a  doorway,  while  from  the  chimney  a 
blue  spiral  of  smoke  eddied  up,  as  gaunt  and  unreal 
as  the  slim  poplars  by  the  hedge.  Now  there  are 
deep  cuts  and  enclosing  scarps,  stone-protected,  or, 
in  lieu  of  masonry,  guarded  from  washouts  by  wick- 
ets of  brush  woven  through  stakes.  Then  for  some 
time  the  country  suggests  Switzerland — the  confor- 
mation of  mountain  and  foothill,  the  color  of  the 
landscape,  the  tiny  streams  dripping  down  the  moun- 
tainside— but  the  cottages  not  at  all.  And  then 
Grand  Lemps,  with  mud  walls  along  the  track  en- 
closing the  village,  and  houses  of  either  mud  or 
rubble,  giving  a  very  Spanish  effect.  Again  farm 
scenes,  men  and  women  haying,  goats  nibbling  off 
the  top  of  a  hedge,  vines  on  low  trellises. 

The  mountains  increase  in  grandeur,  with  a  won- 
derful play  of  sunset  on  the  snow  in  the  distance, 
while  the  nearer  peaks  are  blue-hazed,  like  a  Puvis 
de  Chavannes  vision.  One  must  see  mountains  and 
landscapes  under  exactly  these  conditions  to  appreci- 
ate his  color  effects ;  and  then  it  is  to  marvel  at  his 
ability  to  overlay  colors,  or  at  least  to  give  that  im- 
pression— a  sunset  blue  over  a  sort  of  old  rose  pink. 
Our  Lady  of  Vouise,  a  huge  copper  figure,  silhouetted 
against  the  brilliant  sky  at  Voiron,  made  us  suddenly 

[99] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

aware  of  the  mountain  on  whose  top  she  stands. 
Almost  at  her  feet  we  dropped  three  carloads  of 
picture-book  laborers  we  had  brought  up  the  line,  and 
they  filled  the  platform  with  corduroy  and  color 
and   chatter. 

If  so  far  we  have  passed  through  a  picture-book 
countr}",  now  we  enter  fairyland.  Not  even  Granada 
itself  can  compare  with  the  marvels  about  Grenoble, 
coming  in  of  a  summer  evening.  Surely  it  is  the 
loveliest  picture  France  affords — the  ancient  town, 
whose  walls  bristle  with  bastions  and  tourelles;  the 
thick  gray  stream  of  the  Isere  plunging  madly  past ; 
the  endless  series  of  superimposed  snow  mountains. 
Think  not  of  hotel  or  dinner.  Take  an  open  carriage 
and  get  right  over  to  the  river.  At  first,  the  moun- 
tains swim  in  a  glorious  hehotrope  haze,  and  the 
town  is  ghostly  and  cold  and  gray  in  the  midst 
of  their  splendor.  The  sun  drops  behind  a  sheltering 
peak ;  the  heliotrope  sky  flames,  quivers,  fades ;  the 
very  air  turns  green,  a  curious,  eery  green ;  the  dis- 
tant mountains  emerge  icy  black,  the  nearer  and 
lower  ones  change  into  huge,  translucent  lumps  of 
jade,  and  the  river  to  ink;  vast,  dull-green  shadows 
creep  slowly  down  to  grip  the  city  with  chill  fingers 
that  choke  out  of  it  the  last  waning  spark  of  day. 

The  marvel  is  over.''  Not  quite.  Somewhere, 
faintly,  a  silvery  bell  begins  to  sing,  wee  lights  gem 
the  edges  of  the  flood  and  twinkle  out  along  bridge 
and  avenue ;  it  is  night  in  Grenoble.  Still  in  a  dream, 
you  turn  away,  wishing  for  the  tongue  of  a  poet 

[lOO] 


*      >    •   •       ■  '    * 

3*       >      «        •       •  »  » 

«>a»       (a  t ,* 


GRENOBLE 


to  phrase  the  glory  you  have  seen  as  all  its  majesty 
and  weirdness  deserve.  Not  even  the  smells  and  lights 
and  champings  of  the  hotel  dining-room  can  quite 
rob  you  of  the  ecstasy  you  have  inspired  from  the 
miracle.  Eventually  you  have  to  come  down  to  earth 
again.  Yet  even  then  Grenobk  does  nothing  to  shat- 
ter your  hopes.  Genius  itself  must  have  chosen 
the  site,  and  not  all  "man's  vile  arts"  could  spoil  it. 

Grenoble  is  a  city  of  nearly  seventy  thousand  popu- 
lation, and  formerly  the  capital  of  Dauphine.  When 
that  province  was  added  to  the  crown  possessions,  in 
1349,  the  heir  to  the  throne  of  France  took  his  title 
of  Dauphin  from  it,  while  the  lands  of  the  province 
became  his  princely  appanage. 

Where  the  Dauphin's  palace  used  to  stand  is  the 
handsome  fifteenth  century  Palace  of  Justice,  facing 
the  Place  St.  Andre,  with  the  old  chapel,  now  the 
church  of  St.  Andre,  diagonally  opposite.  It  is  a 
disgrace  to  Grenoble  that  the  church  should  be  dis- 
figured outside  by  having  big  posters  advertising 
various  nostrums  pla&tered  over  its  wall  to  one  side 
of  the  door,  and  small  shops  tucked  up  on  the  other. 
The  effect  is  very  bizarre.  Before  the  door  we  found 
a  crowd  of  idlers,  mostly  lower-class  women  and  girls, 
waiting  for  a  wedding  party  which  was  in  the  adja- 
cent Hotel  de  Ville  for  the  civil  ceremony.  With 
great  dignity,  during  the  interim,  the  verger  came 
out,  gorgeous  in  black  and  purple  robes,  with  a 
scarlet-tufted  black  biretta,  holding  a  stray  cat  by 
the  scruff  of  its  neck,  stalked  down  the  street,  peering 

[lOl] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 


into  shops  until  he  came  to  an  empty  one,  threw  her 
in,  slammed  the  door,  and  stalked  solemnly  back. 

The  wedding  party  had  literally  to  fight  its  way 
through  the  elbowing,  crowding  mob,  which  followed 
into  the  church.  The  only  seats  left  were  at  the 
very  door,  where  we  could  see  nothing  of  the  cere- 
mony for  the  backs  of  the  people  who  stood  on 
the  chairs  in  front.  The  interior  of  St.  Andre  seems 
to  have  suffered  as  much  in  modern  times  as  the 
exterior.  Surely  no  thirteenth  century  chapel  ever 
had  such  tawdry  tinsel  and  glass,  such  dreadful  paint- 
ings. The  most  interesting  thing  in  the  church  is 
the  monument  to  the  memory  of  the  Chevalier  Bay- 
ard, the  knight  without  fear  and  without  reproach, 
who  was  born  at  Le-Cheylas-la-Buissiere,  twenty  miles 
away. 

The  Hotel  de  Ville,  with  its  handsonje  towers,  occu- 
pies part  of  the  former  mansion  of  the  Due  de 
Lesdiguieres,  one  of  the  Calvinist  governors  under 
whom  the  religious  wars  raged  fiercely  at  Grenoble. 
The  duke's  ambition  was  to  be  Grand  Constable  of 
France,  and  he  did  not  hesitate  to  change  faiths  and 
fight  his  former  friends  when  he  thought  it  would 
benefit  him.  His  garden  is  now  the  Jardin  de  Ville, 
beautiful  if  rather  precise,  and  a  popular  as  well 
as  a  fashionable  promenade. 

The  city  is  full  of  flowering  squares,  and  as  if  that 
were  not  enough,  one  morning  gardeners  climbed  to 
the  top  of  the  little  white  trolley  station  in  the  Place, 
right  under  our  windows,  and  filled  it  with  potted 

[  102  ] 


GRENOBLE 


plants,  brilliant  geraniums  and  the  like,  changing  a 
very  commonplace  necessity  into  a  thing  of  beauty. 
The  most  spacious  park  of  all  skirts  the  walls,  and 
is  named,  picturesquely,  the  Promenade  of  the  Green 
Island.  Right  across  the  river  the  rugged  town 
walls  zigzag  up  the  craggy  hill  to  the  Bastille  at  the 
top,  for  Grenoble  is  a  first-class  military  post,  pro- 
tected by  a  belt  of  up-to-date  fortresses. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  is  the  old  Porte  St.  Laurent, 
and,  just  within,  the  eleventh  century  church  of  the 
same  name,  whose  crypt  was  originally  a  sixth  cen- 
tury cruciform  chapel.  Almost  opposite,  in  a  spot- 
less little  two-room  apartment  giving  upon  the  street, 
lives  a  very  dainty  old  lady  w^ho  makes  gloves.  The 
Grenoble  district  employs  no  less  than  29,000  glove-  ^ 
makers,  and  the  importance  of  the  industry  may 
be  judged  from  the  fact  that  every  year  almost  I 
seven  million  dollars'  worth  of  gloves  come  from 
this  section  alone.  All  day  long,  in  good  weather, 
Madame  David  sits  outside  her  door,  with  a  little 
saw-toothed  vise  between  her  knees  gripping  the  kid, 
which  she  sews  with  machine-like  perfection  and 
speed.  Sometimes  she  makes  as  many  as  a  dozen 
pairs  a  day.  Married  in  St.  Laurent,  across  the 
street,  she  has  lived  forty-five  years  in  the  one  house, 
"always  happy,"  as  she  put  it,  with  a  smile. 

When  I  asked  her  if  I  might  photograph  her,  she 
replied  very  gently:  ^'Non — I  cannot  pay  for  it." 
Assured  that  it  was  only  for  a  ^'p'tit  souvenir,''^  she 
looked  stern. 

[103] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 


"Are  you  a  merchant?  I  do  not  wish  my  picture 
upon  the  postal-cards." 

When  she  finally  understood,  her  fine,  clear  skin 
flushed  like  a  child's  at  her  innocent  mistake,  and 
she  thanked  me  very  prettily.  And  a  duchess  might 
have  written  every  word  of  her  note  of  thanks  for 
the  pictures  I  sent  her.  Bonheur  a  cJiere  Madame 
David! 

As  you  come  back  along  the  river,  its  swift  current 
impresses  you,  not  as  water,  but  as  very  liquid  clay, 
and  you  do  not  wonder  that  the  piers  of  the  bridges 
turn  knife-like  edges  to  meet  the  torrent  and  are 
square  and  solid  behind.  As  you  walk  along  the 
bank,  the  lowermost  bridge  seems  suddenly  to  have 
sprouted  full-sized  trees  in  an  orderly  line  from 
end  to  end.  You  stop  to  consider  this  phenomenon, 
then  hurry  forward  to  observe  it  closely ;  and  as 
your  viewpoint  changes,  the  trees  move  back  to  their 
rightful  position  along  the  river  bank,  which  curves 
just  below  the  bridge  in  such  a  way  as  to  present  a 
perfect  illusion  when  seen  from  upstream. 

The  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  is  a  heavy  Roman- 
esque building  of  little  distinction ;  but,  as  has  been 
said  already,  it  is  the  site,  and  not  the  sights,  of 
Grenoble  that  make  the  city  a  joy  to  the  traveler. 
In  every  direction  you  may  take  long  and  short 
excursions  among  the  beautiful  environs,  by  tram, 
on  foot,  along  the  different  railroad  lines,  or  by 
automobile.  Perhaps  the  most  interesting  is  to  the 
Grande   Chartreuse.       This   trip   can   be  made   by 

[104] 


GRENOBLE 


changing  from  the  railroad  to  a  steam  tram  and  then 
to  an  omnibus ;  but  the  ideal  way  is  by  one  of  the 
P.  L.  M.  automobiles,  that  run  all  summer  from 
Grenoble  to  Aix-les-Bains,  by  way  of  the  Chartreuse 
and  Chambery.  The  machines  are  big  trucks,  with 
comfortable,  four-seated  bodies,  that  hold  eighteen 
people  besides  the  chauffeur.  The  cautious  driving 
is  a  surprise  to  Americans.  At  times  the  machine 
makes  twenty  miles  an  hour,  but  the  average  for 
the  whole  trip,  going  and  coming,  can  hardly  be 
more  than  about  twelve  at  the  outside.  In  fact,  this 
slowness  becomes  so  pronounced  occasionally  that  the 
machine  jerks  itself  along  rather  than  runs,  which 
results  in  giving  the  passengers  a  tremendous 
"vibration  cure." 

The  route  over  the  higher  part  of  the  hills,  espe- 
cially the  Col  du  Porte,  is  of  use  only  during  June, 
July  and  August.  The  one  means  of  communica- 
tion the  foresters  and  peasants  have  with  the  outside 
world  during  the  winter  is  on  muleback,  and  seldom 
then,  avalanches  on  the  Col  making  even  such  travel 
very  risky.  So  each  little  hamlet  is  practically  self- 
contained  and  self-supporting  in  the  fullest  sense. 

A  little  pink  time-table  and  guide  issued  by  the 
local  Syndicat  d'Initiative  says :  "Dauphine !  Savoie ! 
These  magic  names  evoke  in  the  eye  of  the  tourist 
avidity  of  emotions,  a  succession  of  uninterrupted 
marvels:  somber,  boiHng  gorges,  abrupt  rocks, 
toothed  peaks  whose  savage  horror  contrasts  strange- 
ly with  the  sweet  luminosity  of  the  pasture  lands  that 

[105] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

cover  with  a  carpet  of  velvet  the  flanks  of  the  loftier 
mountains."  It  is  all  true,  and  much  more.  But 
a  detailed  description  of  that  scenery,  as  we  saw 
it  from  the  huge  car,  that  slowed  down  or  stopped 
entirely  now  and  then,  to  let  me  make  a  picture,  would 
be  wearisome. 

The  Chartreuse,  where  the  unctuous  liqueur  was 
made  until  a  few  years  ago,  stands  in  the  midst 
of  a  circus  of  mountains  covered  with  pine  forests, 
at  the  foot  of  the  escarpments  of  the  Grand  Son, 
and  some  four  kilometers  from  the  entrance  to  the 
valley  called  the  Desert,  once  the  property  of  the 
monks.  The  monastery  was  founded  by  St.  Bruno 
in  the  eleventh  century,  but  what  we  see  to-day  is 
a  tremendous  walled  enclosure  filled  with  ugly  seven- 
teenth century  Renaissance  buildings  which  belong  to 
the  State.  They  are  exhibited  at  fixed  hours  to  the 
curious  by  a  functionary  with  a  very  lackadaisical 
manner,  who  announces  the  various  names  and  func- 
tions of  the  different  rooms  and  halls  with  no  more 
expression  or  feeling  than  a  slot  machine,  and  appar- 
ently with  not  the  slightest  interest  even  in  tips. 

The  convent  itself  is  now  in  rather  badly  kept 
condition:  dust  all  over  everything,  and  the  names 
of  tourists  scribbled  in  it,  on  tables  and  walls;  the 
floors  thick  with  dirt.  From  the  great  chapter  hall 
the  portraits  of  the  former  generals  of  the  order 
have  been  taken  to  Tarragona,  in  Spain,  whither 
the  monks  removed  on  being  exiled  from  France  a 
few  years  ago,  and  only  the  names  and  titles  above 

[io6] 


GRENOBLE 


their  places,  with  the  painted  escutcheon  of  each, 
remain  on  the  plaster.  Every  single  thing  of  the 
slightest  value  has  been  stripped  away,  and  the 
effect  is  that  of  looking  over  the  bones  of  a  desic- 
cated skeleton. 

On  toward  Aix-les-Bains  it  is  a  comparatively 
short  run  to  St.  Pierre  d'Entremont.  Here  the  Fete 
du  Bon  Dieu  was  in  progress,  the  houses  neatly 
trimmed  with  branches,  and  over  the  middle  of  the 
main  street  an  arch  of  green,  from  the  center  of 
which  hung  a  cotton  Dove  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  with 
red  sealing-wax  feet  and  white  fluted-paper  wings 
and  tail,  bearing  a  pink  paper  rose  in  its  beak.  A 
Frenchman  in  our  car  sprang  up  in  his  seat  as  we  ran 
under  it,  and,  with  a  shout  of  *'Voila  le  Bon  Dieu! — 
Behold  the  Good  God!"  tore  it  off.  It  was  so  quickly 
done  that  the  villagers  had  only  time  to  gasp  as 
we  shot  by,  but  we  could  hear  an  angry  tumult  be- 
hind us.  No  better  example  could  be  desired  of 
the  savagery  of  the  automoblllst,  who  relies  on  his 
speed  and  power  to  commit  indecencies  of  this  sort ; 
but  I  doubt  that  any  one  but  a  Frenchman  would 
have  thought  of  quite  such  a  sacrilege  as  this. 

At  the  culminating  point  of  the  route,  with  woods 
about  you,  and  nothing  especial  to  see,  you  turn  a 
sharp  corner,  and  there  is  the  snow-topped  fence 
of  the  world.  It  smites  you.  Words  are  too  paltry 
to  contain  a  tithe  of  that  infinite  splendor  whose 
peak  is  Mt.  Blanc  itself.  Now  the  road  begins  to 
go  down,  winding  through  a  dense  forest,  and  then, 

[  107] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

through  a  tunnel,  we  see  a  lovely  blue  pastoral, 
framed  in  gray  by  the  vault.  As  we  came  through. 
Lake  B  our  get  was  half  veiled  by  a  driving  rain- 
storm, while  above  it  floated  a  tremendous  black 
cloud,  ready  to  burst  and  let  down  oceans.  Mean- 
time the  sun  was  shining  brightly  all  around  us, 
and  the  cloud  cast  a  huge  purple  shadow  over  field 
and  foothill.  We  could  not  see  the  Chateau  of  Cha- 
tillon  on  the  near  hill,  projecting  into  the  lake,  be- 
cause of  the  haze ;  nor  any  of  the  other  ancient 
castles  around  its  banks,  nor  yet  Aix-les-Bains,  for 
the  same  reason.  But  the  color  scheme  was  marvel- 
ous :  every  mountain  blue,  each  a  different  shade  or 
tint ;  the  fields  ranging  up  their  sides  all  different 
greens,  some  clean-shaven  and  smooth  as  skin,  others 
rippling  with  waving  young  grain  that  yielded  to 
the  stormy  breeze  blowing  in  from  the  lake,  some 
tinted  with  the  yellow  of  mustard  or  buttercups, 
and  everywhere  the  redeeming  touch  of  scarlet  pop- 
pies. Chambery,  right  below,  seemed  a  "play-toy" 
of  low  spires  and  chimneys,  of  dull  red  tiles  and 
slate-roofed  houses  and  forts  and  barracks.  The 
road  down  into  the  town  is  a  series  of  sweeping 
curves,  and  from  the  tunnel  into  the  nearly  level 
stretches  there  is  a  horseshoe  where  we  travel  five 
or  six  miles  at  least  to  make  a  scant  one  of  approach. 
Chambery  is  full  of  "atmosphere" — houses  over- 
hanging the  river;  the  river  vanishing  under  the 
town  gardens;  little  balconies  full  of  potted  plants 
with  red  blooms,   and  of  chairs   and  tables,   as  if 

[io8] 


GRENOBLE 


arranged  for  taking  tea;  boulevards  lined  with  low 

sycamores  that  meet  twenty  feet  overhead ;  a  freakish 

elephant  fountain;  red,  white  and  blue  striped  poles 

for  flags  at  the  street  crossings ;  splendid  arcades  on 

the   rue  de   Boigne,   equal   to   those   of   the   rue   de 

Rivoli  in  Paris.      But  the  real   atmosphere   of  the 

town  comes  out  best  in  the  unique  way  the  central 

part  is  built.     You  can  go  almost  its  whole  length 

and  breadth  without  ever  using  the  streets,  except 

to  cross  them,  for  the  houses  are  built  mainly  around 

hollow    squares,    with    queer,    black    little    passages 

underneath,  leading  from  one  block  right  through 

to  another,   making  one  think   of  the  innumerable 

labyrinths  of  a  rabbit  warren.     They  spell  intrigue, 

robbery,  midnight  assassination,  all  the  picturesque 

hfe  of  medieval  times,  when  the  commons  had  to 

be  able  to  make  instantaneous  disappearances,  and 

only  the  nobility  and  gentry,  in  their  steel  clothes, 

dared  walk  openly  in  the  streets.       From  winding 

stone  stair  or  sable  doorway  you  look  out  into  the 

lofty  courts,  whose  iron-barred  windows,  rising  four 

or  five  stories  above,  are  so  prison-like  it  takes  all 

the  magic  of  the  pot  of  geraniums  that  some  one 

is  nursing  high  in  air  to  make  you  feel  that  here 

could  be  home  for  any  one. 

In  old  times,   Chambery  was  the  capital  of  the 

Duchy  of  Savoie,  just  as  it  is  the  capital  now  of 

the  French   departement   that  bears   the   Savoyard 

name.     Its  chief  feature  is,  of  course,  the  ancient 

chateau,  a  tremendous  affair,  about  a  thousand  feet 

[109J 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

long,  on  a  little  hillock  at  the  end  of  the  rue  de 
Boigne.  It  was  originally  built  in  the  thirteenth 
century,  as  the  castle  of  the  powerful  and  independ- 
ent Dues  de  Savoie,  and  many  a  brilliant  and  stirring 
scene  have  its  grim  old  walls  witnessed.  But  the 
dukes  were  destined  for  higher  things  than  ruling 
a  mere  duchy,  and  when  they  became  kings  of  Sar- 
dinia— en  route  to  the  throne  of  Italy — ^their  castle 
gradually  slipped  down  the  easy  descent,  until  to-day 
it  is  a  police  station.  Few  indeed  are  the  chateaux 
that  give  a  better  idea  of  those  ancient  feudal  lords 
than  this,  though  a  large  part  of  the  structure  has 
been  restored.  Its  scarps  and  walls,  titanically  thick 
and  high;  its  massive,  lonely  tower;  the  wonderful 
ramp  by  which  you  venture  into  the  interior  court- 
yard; the  exquisite  Portail  at  the  lower  side;  the 
beautiful  apse  of  the  chapel,  a  good-sized  church  in 
itself — all  spell  military  power,  boundless  resources, 
and  a  soaring  imagination  that  are  wonderfully  im- 
pressive. Not  even  the  ugly  commonplace  that  has 
built  up  all  around  the  noble  old  structure  has  much 
power  to  take  from  its  effect  and  charm. 

It  is  rather  dusty  and  gusty  in  Chambery  in  sum- 
mer, but  the  quaint  little  Cafe  P.  Barlet  has  pro- 
vided against  that  by  a  glass  enclosure  outside,  where 
you  can  sit,  and  have  your  aperitif  or  your  tea  com- 
.fortably,  and  still  see  all  that  goes  on  or  goes  by. 
It  will  not  be  more  than  two  or  three  minutes  after 
you   sit  down   before   things  begin   to   happen.      It 

may  be  only  a  miniature  covered  "schooner,"  full 

[no] 


GRENOBLE 


of  birds  for  sale,  drawn  by  a  medium-sized  donkey 
and  two  big  yellow  dogs  in  front,  and  pushed  from 
behind  by  a  third  panting,  trotting,  yellow  mongrel, 
who  surges  forward  into  his  collar-harness  with 
tongue  hanging  far  out.  Or  it  may  be  an  enormous 
peasant  woman,  in  a  handsome  costume  of  black  and 
royal  purple,  sauntering  by  with  her  family,  husband 
and  son  together  not  equaling  her  for  bulk.  Per- 
haps a  big  touring  car,  full  of  prosperous  bourgeois, 
stops  at  the  door  for  a  gasoline  aperitif.  The 
women  have  good  clothes  and  big  diamonds,  but,  oh, 
such  feet!  Their  shoes  look  like  the  old  ones  you 
give  a  tramp,  who  puts  them  on  because  he  needs 
them,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  are  down  at 
the  heel  and  much  too  large  and  too  long. 

At  night,  one-half  of  Chambery  seems  to  spend  its 
time  at  the  big  moving  picture  park,  and  the  other 
half  at  the  one  cafe-chantant  the  town  boasts,  the 
barnlike  Brasserie  Moderne.  Here  a  good  part  of 
the  audience  is  composed  of  officers  and  men  from 
the  garrison,  "Dragons"  and  Alpine  Chasseurs-a- 
Pied,  picturesque  fellows  all.  The  good  folk  of 
Chambery  are  very  proud  of  their  Chasseurs,  and 
boast  that  any  one  of  the  artillerymen  attached  to 
this  type  of  regiment  can  carry,  or  at  least  hold 
for  a  moment,  the  mountain  gun  it  takes  two  mules 
to  carry  up  the  dizzy  trails.  Fortunately,  they  did 
not  exhibit  their  Samsonian  qualities  while  I  was 
in  the  cafe,   and  the   scene  was   one  of  discretion, 

as  the  French  would  say,  though  the  performance 

[in] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

of  the  singers  and  dancers  was  as  mecha/nt  as  their 
appearance  and  their  voices  were  attractive. 

By  all  means  go  back  to  Grenoble  by  automobile, 
as  you  came.  The  return  trip  inevitably  clarifies 
and  strengthens  the  delightful  impressions  received 
on  the  way  up,  impressions  that  not  even  a  visit  to 
Aix-les-Bains,  with  its  tepid  sulphur  baths,  its  gam- 
bling casino,  and  its  magnificent  location,  can  spoil. 
Coming  back,  we  noticed  not  only  the  familiar  cruci- 
fixes for  human  beings  by  the  roadside,  but  tiny  little 
crosses  made  of  cleanly  whittled  twigs,  standing 
about  two  feet  high,  in  fields  of  mustard,  grain  and 
small  vegetables — crosses  for  the  birds  of  heaven 
to  worship  at.  At  least,  that  is  what  the  chauffeur 
said,  crossing  himself  and  lifting  his  cap,  as  he  no- 
ticed one.  Another  Frenchman,  smiling  at  his 
naivete,  remarked  gravely  that  perhaps  that  was 
the  reason  they  were  there ;  but,  anyway,  it  was  good 
to  have  one's  crops  dedicated  to  religion,  and  the 
birds  might  worship  if  they  chose.  The  grave  old 
crow  I  noticed  sitting  on  one,  nevertheless,  did  not 
look  worshipful;  he  was  tilting  the  little  symbol  of 
faith  far  to  one  side,  so  that  it  looked  rakish  rather 
than  religious. 

As  we  rolled  along  we  passed  several  small  cattle 
fairs  in  the  mountain  villages,  and  in  one  place,  as 
the  chauffeur  said,  "one  market  of  women,  one  of 
cattle."  The  only  women  we  noticed  being  sold 
in  the  market,  however,  were  those  who  were  buying 
at  the  carts. 

[  112  1 


GOING       TO       GBASSB 

AS  we  go  on  southward,  every  window  in  the^ 
^-^ackground.      About    twenty    miles    fromA 
Strain  frames  a  picture,  with  a  peak  as  aJ<\ 
Grenoble  we  suddenly  swing  out  on  a  viaduct  that^ 
sweeps  up  the  mountainside  in  two  spiraling  curves 
that  fairly  take  away  the  breath.     The  view  is  in- 
spiring!    I  lost  my  head  over  it  completely,  making 
picture  after  picture,  to  the  interest  of  a  Frenchman 
and  his  wife,  who  very  pleasantly  gave  me  window 
rights   on  both   sides    of  the   compartment,   and   so 
missed  part  of  the  scene  themselves.    It  is  over  all  too 
quickly,  with  a  rush  through  a  cindery  tunnel,  and 
then  again  we  see  it,  and  go  still  higher.     Below,  the 
plain  and  the  foothills  unroll  like  a  flag  thrown  to 
the  winds,   and  the   panorama,   in   the   sunshine  of 
mid-June,  is  beyond  words  of  praise  or  description. 
After  changing  cars  at  Veynes  we  soon  pass  two 
remarkable  mountain  formations.    In  the  first,  a  rock 
crest  runs  up  in  a  curve  just  over  the  tip,  exactly 
like  the  brazen  crests  on  ancient  helmets.     To  one 
side  this  ridge  looks  a  splendid  piece  of  fortifica- 
tion, that  might  flame  at  any  moment  with  gunfire. 

[113] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

The  second  is  a  series  of  low  foothills  approaching 
a  mountain  shaped  and  formed  hke  a  walled  city, 
with  regularly  built  defenses  and  bastions  all  along. 
All  through  the  mountainous  regions  of  southern 
France  there  are  these  peculiar  formations.  Now 
the  scenery  changes  rapidly — barren,  rugged  moun- 
tains rising  from  orchards  of  almonds  and  olives, 
clear  indication  of  the  sunny  south.  And  then  you 
cry  out  in  surprise  at  the  sight  of  a  village  of  feudal 
days,  topped  by  an  old  fort  on  the  crest  of  its  hill, 
with  the  vale  and  river  winding  away  toward  Provence 
in  blue  waves,  upon  which  the  setting  sun  casts  a 
romantic  splendor  wholly  at  variance  with  the  facts. 
Traveling  by  day,  to  miss  none  of  the  scenery,  we 
saw  most  of  our  stopping-places  for  the  first  time 
in  the  ruddy  glamour  of  the  sunset. 

As  a  matter  of  plain  statement,  Sisteron  is  an 
unwholesome  place,  full  of  vermin,  stenches,  filthy 
streets,  houses  without  ventilation  or  sanitation,  dirty 
people,  talking  a  patois  which  is  a  mess  of  French, 
Proven9al  and  argot.  Yet  the  people  are  very  good 
to  look  at,  the  children  lovely  and  well-mannered, 
and  the  whole  situation  so  unusual  and  attractive  that 
one  is  apt  to  forget  everything  but  the  beauty  of 
Nature  in  both  still  and  animated  life.  You  avoid 
all  the  drawbacks  by  stopping  near  the  station,  at 
a  Touring  Club  hotel,  with  a  terrace  full  of  potted 
daisies,  little  marble-topped  tables  and  a  tinkling 
fountain.  A  long,  dusty,  sycamore  avenue  leads  to 
the  town,  where  tlie  twelfth  century  church  of  Notre 

[114] 


GOING   TO   GRASSE 


Dame  and  the  ruined  towers  of  the  ancient  ramparts 
are  mightily  attractive. 

We  were  standing  before  the  miniature  "Palace 
of  Justice,"  when  a  gentleman,  clearly  of  the  haut 
monde^  came  out  of  a  small,  very  ordinary  house 
directly  opposite.  In  answer  to  my  questions,  he 
said  he  knew  very  little  of  the  place,  as  he  was  a 
stranger  himself;  but  he  did  direct  us  to  the  best 
viewpoint.  I  concluded  he  must  be  the  judge,  as 
afterward  proved  to  be  the  case.  Following  his 
advice,  we  climbed  up  through  a  winding  lane  to 
the  crest  of  the  hill  and  the  fort,  a  wonderful  struc- 
ture, partly  designed  by  Vauban,  so  situated  as  to 
utilize  the  natural  rock  wherever  possible  for  parts 
of  its  walls  and  scarps.  Ruined  outworks,  testifying 
mutely  to  its  original  strength,  make  a  melancholy 
belt  about  its  lower  side.  But  we  did  not  go  in. 
The  French  authorities  are  inclined  to  view  cameras 
with  jaundiced  eyes,  and  I  had  no  desire  to  prove 
the  hospitality  of  a  border  fortress  inhabited  only 
by  a  handful  of  artillerymen,  who  posted  no  sentries, 
and  gave  small  evidence  of  contact  with  the  world. 

A  little  to  one  side,  however,  on  a  slightly  higher 
spur  of  the  hill,  we  found  a  stirring  panorama: 
the  silver  lines  of  the  railroad  metals  along  which 
we  had  come  paralleled  by  the  blue  mountain  stream 
that  cuts  into  the  bigger,  muddier  river  just  above 
the  town ;  the  almost  flat  plain  through  which  they 
run ;  the  mountains  fencing  it  in  on  every  side  and 
throwing   out    low   lines    of   foothills    that   venture 

[115] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

only  a  little  way  into  the  open.  Two  great  defiles, 
or  passes,  through  one  of  which  the  railroad  van- 
ishes, form  a  natural  entrance  into  central  France, 
and  the  forts  which  mount  the  commanding  hills 
all  through  this  district  are  designed  to  prevent 
invasion  from  the  Italian  frontier,  not  far  distant. 

After  dinner  we  sat  out  on  the  terrace^  listening 
to  the  bird-songs  and  the  tinkle  of  the  water,  and 
watching  the  egg  in  the  fountain  turning  somer- 
saults. By-and-by  the  judge  came  along  and  sat 
down  for  his  coffee,  and  a  drummer  for  a  liqueur 
house  argued  vigorously  with  Madame  that  his  gen- 
tian cordial  was  infinitely  superior  to  any  other 
liqueur  tonique.  When  we  retired  at  last,  in  the 
moonlight,  the  gentle  murmur  of  flowing  water  was 
still  in  our  ears,  and  the  perfume  of  the  garden, 
wafted  in  on  the  crisp  mountain  air,  fresh  in  our 
nostrils. 

The  town,  though  filthy,  makes  an  effort  to  be 

as  clean  as  possible.     Its  street-cleaning  department 

consists   of  a  horse  and  cart,  a  girl   of  ten,  with 

fuzzy,  faded  yellow  hair,  a  foreman  who  does  little, 

and  a  vigorous  woman  of  forty,  who  does  most  of 

the  work.     Broom  and  shovel  in  hand,  she  gathers 

into   big  heaps   the   little  piles   of   refuse   the   girl 

collects,  shovels  them  into  the  cart,  and  then  climbs 

in  on  top  to  stamp  the  load  down.     Along  the  main 

street  in  the  early  morning  there  is  plenty  to  see: 

sturdy  old  farmer-women,  with  pitchforks  over  their 

shoulders  and  wide-brimmed,  floppy  straw  hats,  on 

[ii6] 


One    of    the    "sweet    and    stately,    the    fair    and 
captivating  daughters  of  Aries" 


GOING   TO    GRASSE 


their  way  out  to  the  fields ;  young  girls  roasting 
and  grinding  coif  ee  on  the  sidewalk ;  women  dam- 
ming the  rushing  gutters  to  get  enough  water  for 
a  vigorous  broom-scrubbing  of  whole  shop-fronts ; 
women  and  girls  carrying  water  from  the  fountains, 
or  doing  laundry  work  there.  One  fat  laundress 
at  a  little  square  fountain  basin  was  very  up-to-date 
— she  washed  sitting  in  a  chair,  with  an  umbrella 
over  her  to  keep  off  the  sun,  which  was  really  hot. 

Everywhere  through  southern  France  you  find  the  (j^\ 
gipsy.  In  the  square  facing  the  "Cathedral"  two 
of  these  vagabond  families  were  encamped.  The  most 
surprising  thing  about  them  was  that  the  men  were 
doing  the  culinary  work,  while  the  women  and  girls 
were  lounging  and  reading  the  papers.  There  is 
a  compulsory  education  law  in  France,  but  how  do 
the  authorities  hold  the  gipsies  anywhere  long  enough 
to  teach  them  anything  .^^  One  man  washed  dishes, 
and  then  some  lettuce,  which  he  shook  in  a  dirty  jute 
bag  to  dry  for  dinner.  Another  peeled  vegetables 
for  a  stew,  and  put  them  to  simmer  in  a  black 
kettle  over  an  open  wood  fire.  All  the  gipsies  looked 
fairly  clean  and  comfortable,  at  least  as  much  so 
as  the  townsfolk.  Some  of  the  young  girls  were 
as  pretty  as  they  were  wild-looking.  On  the  way 
back  to  the  hotel  we  saw  two  playing  like  fawns, 
leaping  over  a  mountain  rivulet  and  running  about. 
The  elder,  about  twelve,  was  the  picture  of  a  grand- 
opera  gipsy — black  eyes,  thick  black  hair,  tawny 
skin  with  high  color.     She  wore  a  vivid  red  kerchief 

[117] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

over  her  hair   and  a  dress   full  of  startling  color 
contrasts. 

All  about  the  hills  are  charming  walks,  and  the 
stony  height  across  the  river,  which  gives  a  splendid 
view  of  town  and  fortress,  is  a  veritable  paradise 
of  every  imaginable  kind,  size  and  color  of  wild 
flower,  the  air  saturated  with  their  rich  fragrance. 
On  from  Sisteron  the  scenery  is  striking  and  varied. 
Near  Annot,  the  rock  formations  are  especially  novel. 
Big,  isolated  boulders  perch  insecurely  in  all  sorts 
of  impossible  places  on  the  hillsides.  In  a  number 
of  places  walls  have  been  built,  making  a  house  of 
the  niche  or  cavern  under  the  rock. 

Once  more  we  left  the  train  in  the  late  afternoon, 
at  the  little  town  of  Entrevaux.  It  is  condensed 
picturesqueness  itself,  crowding  together  on  a  rocky 
head  of  land  deeply  moated  on  three  sides  by  a  tor- 
rential mountain  stream.  Black,  steep,  narrow  alleys, 
too  tiny  to  be  called  real  streets,  wander  fractiously 
up  and  down  among  the  lofty  houses,  paved  with 
flat,  round  stones,  set  on  edge,  and  calculated  to 
give  corns  to  anybody  but  wearers  of  wooden  sabots. 
Around  it  all  the  walls  run  up  the  forbidding  hill- 
side to  a  wonderfully  situated  citadel,  once  a  strong 
fort,  now  a  military  prison. 

The  statement  that  no  cabs  are  allowed  to  enter 
the  town  is  rather  ridiculous.  There  are  no  cabs, 
in  the  first  place ;  no  demand  for  them,  in  the  second ; 
and  in  the  third,  they  could  not  get  around  in  the 
town    if    they    were    there.      Entering    through    the 

[ii8] 


GOING   TO    GRASSE 


double  gate  and  over  the  drawbridge,  we  followed  a 
twisty  little  street  to  the  main  Place,  where  the  only 
hotel  occupies  an  ancient  building.  It  is  the  sort 
of  hostelry  one  learns  to  expect  in  such  a  place, 
but  clean  and  fairly  comfortable.  A  winding  stair, 
with  distracting  branches,  leads  from  the  basement 
on  up  to  the  bedroom  floors ;  the  dining-room,  about 
half-way  between  the  entrance  hall  and  the  first 
bedroom  floor,  on  a  little  off'shoot.  A  rather  elab- 
orate dinner  was  served  by  the  pleasant  proprietress 
and  her  young  daughter,  though  the  only  guests 
besides  ourselves  were  three  cheery  young  Jesuit 
fathers  and  a  disgruntled  artillery  colonel. 

Next  morning  we  found  the  village  farrier  shoeing 
horses,  mules  and  donkeys  right  before  the  hotel 
door.  If  ever  there  was  anything  that  spoke  of 
medieval  days,  it  was  this.  I  could  imagine  knights 
and  roistering  blades,  looking  for  trouble  in  the  good 
old  novelistic  fashion,  leaping  down  from  their  steeds 
at  the  door,  and  going  inside  for  refreshment  while 
the  swart  peasant  smith  took  a  turn  at  their  horses' 
feet.  The  facade  of  the  hotel  itself  suggests  poi- 
gnards  and  swords  and  hose,  though  I  cannot  tell 
why,  since  it  is  merely  old  and  grimy,  and  featureless 
save  for  a  big  vine  climbing  over  it.  But  the  atmos- 
phere is  there,  nevertheless.  The  steeds  to-day  are 
used  to  carry  in  produce  from  the  fields  and  gardens 
outside — there  are  none  whatever  in  town,  since  space 
is  precious  on  the  bare  rock — and  you  have  to  flatten 
yourself  in  a  doorway  to  let  the  panniered  beasts  go 

[ii9l 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

by.  Here  and  there  a  horse  tolls  at  the  end  of  a 
long  rope,  hoisting  bales  of  hay  or  fodder  into  the 
upper  stories  of  dwellings,  the  people  preferring  to 
live  in  what  we  consider  the  least  desirable  part  of 
the  house,  black,  damp,  cellar-like  rooms  at  or  below 
the  street-level. 

The  people,  while  they  lack  the  attractiveness  of 
their  town,  are  very  pleasant  and  gracious — perhaps 
the  tourist-in-a-hurry  has  never  been  in  Entrevaux 
to  spoil  them — and  most  of  the  children  are  both 
pretty  and  charmingly  shy.  Two  little  witches, 
Illaudie  and  Helene,  stole  our  hearts  as  they  washed 
their  well-darned  little  stockings  at  a  fountain  basin 
in  the  dappled  shadow  of  a  great  chestnut;  and  we 
longed  for  the  power  of  a  Sorolla  to  bewitch  them, 
in  turn,  into  forever  smiling  figures  upon  a  sun- 
splashed  canvas.  They  followed  us  around,  livening 
dark  alleys  and  black  doorways ;  they  brought  up 
their  little  friends  to  pose  for  us,  and  even  the 
bonne  maman  of  one — though  she  had  so  hideous  a 
mustache  I  could  scarcely  believe  her  willing.  Un- 
fortunately, she  is  only  one  of  many  thousands  of 
such  women  in  provincial  France,  many  not  only 
mustached  but  bearded. 

As  there  are  no  manufactures  in  the  town,  prac- 
tically the  entire  able-bodied  population  emigrates 
every  morning  to  the  fields  and  gardens  and  vine- 
yards outside.  Some  of  the  gardens  are  unbeliev- 
ably narrow,  mere  strips  of  terrace  a  few  feet  wide, 
hanging  above  the  rushing  stream. 

[  120  ] 


GOING   TO    GRASSE 


Leaving  Entrevaux  behind,  the  train  soon  passes 
through  some  of  the  glorious  mountain  gorges  that 
give  this  whole  southern  region  an  unforgetable  char- 
acter. One  town,  Touet-de-Beuil,  is  distinctly  origi- 
nal, the  houses  on  the  rocky  hillside  climbing  in  some 
places  to  what  appears  from  the  train  eleven  full 
stories.  Of  course,  this  is  mere  illusion.  It  is  simply 
that  two  or  more  rows  are  visible,  one  above  and  be- 
hind the  other.  Later,  the  valley  narrows  to  a  mere 
defile,  with  the  road  and  railroad  on  a  narrow  shelf. 
Farther  on,  town  after  town  comes  into  view,  each 
on  its  hilltop,  making  an  effect  better  imagined  or 
seen  than  described,  especially  at  the  spot  where 
from  the  low  valley  you  look  up  to  the  eternal  peaks 
and  see  no  less  than  five,  each  with  its  man-made 
coronet. 

The  train  goes  on  to  Nice,  but  we  left  it  at  the 
junction  station  of  Colomars  for  the  narrow-gauge 
line  to  Grasse.  This  Sud  Railroad  runs  through 
beautiful,  if  sometimes  terrifying,  landscapes,  over 
long  viaducts,  through  tunnels,  and  among  flower 
plantations  all  the  way.  For  a  little  the  train,  more 
like  matchboxes  than  ever,  parallels  the  boiling  Var, 
darts  across  it  on  a  rattling,  double-decked  bridge, 
and  plunges  into  exquisite  scenery — a  ruined  Tem- 
plars' castle  on  a  hill,  a  black  etching  against  the 
flaming  sky  of  approaching  sunset ;  the  town  of 
St.  Jeannet-la-Gaude,  nestling  under  the  Gibraltar- 
like crag  of  Baou;  a  deep  little  gorge,  merely  the 
earnest  of  what  is  coming  in  the  twilight. 

[121] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

Vence  and  Tourettes,  beautiful  towns  both,  drop 
behind,  and  our  speed  accelerates  until  the  match- 
boxes hop  about  alarmingly  on  the  rails.  These 
narrow-gauge  lines  are  all  very  well  on  straight  met- 
als, at  slow  speed,  and  on  a  level,  but  when  they  go 
careering  around  the  sides  of  mountains,  with  sheer 
drops  of  several  hundred  feet  on  one  side  and  jagged 
walls  towering  sheer  above  on  the  other,  or  nothing 
at  all  on  either  side  but  the  narrow  edge  of  a  viaduct 
spanning  a  ravine  so  deep  and  crooked  the  trestle 
has  to  curvet  to  get  across,  it  makes  your  head  swim 
and  turns  your  stomach. 

That  is  what  you  feel  going  over  the  Gorge  du 
Loup,  and  any  blase  person  craving  a  new  sensation 
has  only  to  try  it,  about  dusk,  to  gratify  his  wish. 
Gorge  of  the  Wolf  indeed  it  is ;  a  bottomless  gorge, 
apparently,  from  the  car  window,  full  of  unearthly 
lupine  rock  shapes  and  of  ghostly  waterfalls,  at 
which  the  affrighted  little  engine  shrieks  madly 
and  runs  away.  You  can  hear  the  wheel-flanges 
smack  against  the  rails  as  the  speed  and  the  curves 
throw  you  from  side  to .  side.  The  safety  of  the 
road  and  the  speed  is  best  proven  by  the  fact  that 
there  has  never  been  an  accident  on  it;  but  any  one 
with  imagination  can  conjure  up  some  very  lively 
horrors  at  twilight,  notwithstanding. 

The  last  gorge  is  the  worst.  All  we  could  see  of 
it  was  a  yawning  black  void,  with  here  and  there 
a  faint  light  far  below  us,  distant  and  twinkling  as 
a  tiny  star. 

[  122] 


XI 

GRASSB       AND       THE       RIVIEBA 

GRASSE  lies  about  twelve  miles  inland,  and 
a  thousand  feet  above  sea-level,  delightfully 
set  on  a  hillside,  where  its  houses  and  fac- 
tories, chimneys  and  spires,  sweep  in  a  great  amphi- 
theater about  the  cathedral,  and  mount  the  slope 
tier  upon  tier.  Somehow  we  expected  to  find  the 
city  all  a  bower,  full  of  perfume,  with  splendid  villas 
and  magnificent  hotels  right  in  the  heart  of  things. 
In  reality,  the  fine  estates,  flower-gardens  and  hotels 
which  attract  such  a  tremendous  patronage  from 
every  country  under  the  sun  in  winter,  are  all  out- 
side the  town  proper.  As  for  the  perfume,  it  is  there 
— in  spots.  Aside  from  them,  Grasse  smells  very 
much  like  any  other  old  town  in  France. 

Belted  about  with  high  walls  that  rise  to  the  level 
of  the  third-story  windows,  it  is  a  damp  labyrinth  > 
of  crooked,  narrow,  vilely  paved  ramps  that  fre-  \ 
quently  end  in  tricky  stairs  or  split  into  twins,  one 
going  on  at  its  old  level,  the  other  descending  or 
rising,  and  perhaps  ending  in  a  passageway  running 
through  the  heart  of  some  prominent  building.  Here 
and  there  a  fountain,  overhung  by  sycamores  or  a 

r  123] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

single  big  willow,  makes  a  bright  spot  in  the  street, 
and  gathers  the  color  and  gaiety  of  the  mercurial 
people  about  it,  while  everywhere,  now  almost  swal- 
lowed up  by  tawdry  conventionality,  now  surquidant 
and  alone,  rise  fragments  of  the  splendid  past,  bits  of 
sober  doorways,  stately  arches,  a  battered  palace 
fa9ade,  or  a  melodramatic  square  donjon  tower,  all 
eloquent  of  Italy. 

The  most  important  building  is  the  church  of 
Notre  Dame  De  Podio,  the  ancient  Cathedral,  with 
a  tall,  simple,  square  campanile,  both  essentially 
Italian  in  type.  These  Italian  influences  in  archi- 
tecture are  undoubtedly  the  result  of  the  commer- 
cial relations  and  political  treaties  between  the  old 
Republics  of  Grasse,  Pisa  and  Genoa.  Unfortunately, 
the  French  town  became  embroiled  in  the  bitter  fac- 
tional quarrels  of  her  allies,  and  her  own  people 
split  into  hostile  parties  themselves,  with  the  result 
that  the  Count  of  Provence,  Raymond  Beranger,  was 
able,  in  1226,  to  take  possession  of  it.  The  people 
may  have  been  valiant  fighters  in  those  ancient  days, 
but  they  do  not  look  the  part  now — slight  of  stature, 
and  insignificant  of  feature,  with  especially  small 
noses.  Indeed,  over  in  the  little  neighboring  town 
of  Le  Bar  this  latter  peculiarity  is  so  pronounced 
that  it  seemed  to  us  a  positive  disfigurement. 

Grasse  is  renowned  the  world  over  for  its  per- 
fumes. In  the  vicinity  of  the  town,  on  hill  and  in 
valley,  more  than  twelve  thousand  acres  are  devoted 
to  the  cultivation  of  roses,  tuberoses,  jasmine,  violets, 

[  124] 


GRASSE    AND   THE    RIVIERA 


pinks,  orange-blossoms,  and  innumerable  other  flow- 
ers, whose  petals  yield  the  precious  essence.  The 
region  seems  to  have  been  sprinkled  in  the  old  days 
with  convents  and  monasteries,  and  it  is  in  them  that 
many  of  the  larger  distilleries  are  housed.  This 
does  not  seem  quite  so  bad  as  stables  or  wine-shops 
in  dismantled  religious  edifices ;  yet  as  we  stand  in 
the  door  of  some  beautiful  old  chapel,  and  look  in 
at  the  sweating  crowd  of  workers,  it  seems  a  dese- 
cration, even  though  they  are  piling  up  great  heaps 
of  rose-leaves  and  the  air  is  surcharged  with  a  fra- 
grance no  incense  could  ever  give. 

Visitors  are  welcome  in  the  factories,  and  a  woman 
cicerone  guides  you  through  from  the  room  where 
the  flowers  are  pulled  to  pieces  and  the  petals  heaped 
in  great  baskets,  to  the  packing-room,  where  the 
finished  bottles  of  perfume  are  prepared  for  shipment 
to  every  civilized  land.  The  stripped  petals  are 
thrown  into  huge  vats  of  boiling  fat,  and  after  vari- 
ous interesting  processes — all  carefully  explained,  if 
j'^ou  "wish  to  hear  about  them — the  essence  is  con- 
densed, and  the  precipitated  fat  turned  into  fine 
scented  soaps,  so  that  the  only  waste  in  the  whole  pro- 
ceeding is  the  petals  themselves,  from  which  every 
semblance  of  shape  and  odor  has  been  expressed.  This 
hot  process  is  employed  for  all  the  flowers  except  jas- 
mine and  tuberoses.  Their  perfume  is  first  extracted 
by  cold  grease,  on  glass  plates,  after  which  the 
process  is  the  same. 

A  French   authority   declares   that   every   season 

[125  1 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

642,400  tons  of  different  flowers  are  destroyed  at 
Grasse  for  the  manufacture  of  the  costly  essence. 
No  less  than  twelve  and  a  half  tons  of  the  petals  are 
required  for  the  manufacture  of  a  single  liter  of 
rose  essence,  which  sells  for  anywhere  from  four  hun- 
dred to  five  hundred  dollars  there  at  the  factory. 
Little  did  Catherine  de'  Medici  dream  of  this  when 
she  sent  her  famous  doctor,  the  Sieur  Tombarelli,  to 
Grasse  to  found  a  laboratory  for  perfume  distilla- 
tion in  the  sixteenth  century. 

"  From  Grasse  it  is  only  a  dozen  miles  or  so  through 
a  perfumed  Eden  to  Cannes,  on  the  Cote  d'Azur,  the 
Blue  Shore,  as  the  French  half  of  the  Riviera  is 
called.  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  only  about  eighty 
years  ago  Cannes,  now  the  millionaire's  paradise,  was 
nothing  but  a  little  fishing  village,  huddling  about 
the  ancient  church  and  castle,  on  a  rocky  eminence 
thrusting  out  into  the  middle  of  the  bay.  At  that 
time  the  English  statesman.  Lord  Brougham,  fleeing 
from  the  fog  and  damp  of  an  English  winter  to  the 
sunshine  and  flowers  of  southern  Italy,  could  not  go 
on  to  his  destination  because  of  a  quarantine,  and 
stopped  at  Cannes.  He  found  in  its  climate  and 
location  exactly  what  he  desired.  His  villa  built, 
other  Enghshmen  came,  talked  of  this  Blue  Shore, 
and  the  Riviera  was  launched  upon  a  swelling  tide 
of  prosperity. 

The  most  interesting  feature  of  old  Cannes  is  the 
Chevalier's    Tower,    part    of    the    eleventh    century 

fortress-residence  of  the  mainland  representative,  or 

[126] 


GRASSE   AND   THE    RIVIERA 

Chevalier,  of  the  Abbot  of  the  nearby  lies  de  Lerins, 
who  was  feudal  as  well  as  religious  lord  of  all  this 
territory.  The  tower  is  square  and  massive,  built 
of  great  cut  stones  with  rough  faces.  It  is  typical 
of  the  south,  as  the  round  tower  is  of  the  north,  and 
is  found  everywhere — as  an  isolated  defense,  a  part 
of  the  walls  of  protected  cities,  and  in  forts.  The 
stormy  times  in  which  it  and  many  similar  towers 
throughout  this  region  were  built  show  clearly  in 
the  entrance — a  square  door  in  the  second  story, 
reached  only  by  a  ladder,  that  could  be  instantly 
drawn  in  on  the  approach  of  an  enemy.  The  step 
or  ledge  where  its  top  rested  is  still  there,  making 
a  narrow  sill.  There  is  a  stairway  now  for  visitors. 
For  all  the  light  admitted  by  the  narrow  loopholes 
is  very  meager,  and  the  climb  toilsome,  it  is  well 
worth  while  to  make  the  ascent  for  the  magnificent, 
brilliant  panorama  from  the  top. 

On  either  hand  stretches  away  a  flashing  crescent 
of  blue  water,  pearly  sand  and  white-walled,  red- 
roofed  houses.  Away  on  the  west  the  Esterel  Moun- 
tains creep  out  seaward  in  a  rich  blue  fringe  of 
thorny  peaks.  To  the  east,  the  curving  shore  dim- 
ples and  coquettes  with  the  sea  in  an  apparently 
endless  series  of  glistening  bays  and  hilly  little  capes. 
Right  at  our  feet  is  the  old  town,  and  off  shore  the 
islands  of  St.  Honorat  and  Ste.  Marguerite  make 
a  mass  of  blue  and  green  on  the  horizon.  It  is  as 
lovely  as  anything  ever  imagined,  the  broad  water- 
front boulevard  lined  with  truly  magnificent  hotels 

[127] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

and  gardens,  villas  of  the  rich  and  noble,  palms,  flow- 
ers, statuary,  fountains,  everything  man  could  desire. 
After  seeing  the  villas  of  the  fashionables  it  is  easy 
to  understand  why  the  hotel  dweller  does  not  get 
into  society.  They  are  palaces — their  gardens  are 
marvels ! 

Though  the  Riviera  was  a  part  of  Old  Provence, 
neither  name,  by  any  stretch  of  imagination,  ever 
suggests  the  other ;  and  yet,  in  a  measure,  each  has 
the  same  suggestion:  Provence,  good  wine,  fair 
women,  and  the  splintering  crash  of  spears ;  the 
Riviera,  good  wine,  fair  women,  and  the  seductive 
clink  of  gold.  Of  course,  everybody  who  is  anybody 
goes  to  the  Riviera  during  the  few  weeks  that  Fashion 
has  decreed  as  the  season ;  and  all  such  envied  ones 
declare  positively  that  this  flashing  coast  is  quite 
impossibly  hot  in  summer,  and  nobody  who  is  anybody 
would  think  of  it  then — ^a  suffit!  As  for  us,  we 
have  tried  it  in  the  height  of  the  season,  and  during 
the  summer,  and  declare  unequivocally  for  the  latter. 

Is  there  any  satisfaction  in  being  one  jot  among 
a  million  tittles,  crowded  for  room,  robbed  on  every 
hand,  and  half-frozen  except  when  you  have  taken 
off*  your  foolish  summery  clothes  and  gone  to  bed.'* 
Anyway,  what's  the  use  of  going  "where  every  pros- 
pect pleases"  when  the  view  is  sure  to  be  blocked  by 
the  Prince  and  Princess  of  Tarara ;  where,  when 
you  do  snatch  a  chance  to  level  the  camera,  some 
one  jostles  you ;  or  where,  no  matter  how  modest  your 
appearance,  some  Count  Noaccount  tries  to  scrape 

[128] 


GRASSE    AND    THE    RIVIERA 

acquaintance — ^because    tous    les    Americavns    sont 
riches? 

On  the  other  hand,  this  picture:  A  park  bench 
all  to  yourself  and  your  paraphernalia ;  over  you 
a  whispering  palm,  making  exquisite  shadow-lace  on 
the  sand,  whence  impish  httle  heat  ripples  dance  up- 
ward; before  you  one  of  the  loveliest  panoramas 
ever  created,  stretching  for  miles  on  every  hand; 
a  knot  of  colorful  fishermen  off  to  one  side,  working 
at  their  nets ;  a  native  child  skipping  gaily  along 
the  beach;  a  dozen  lusty  women  at  the  mouth  of 
a  rivulet,  ruining  perfectly  good  linen ;  and  a  lone 
sail  in  the  offing,  wheeling  about  like  a  great  white 
moth  in  the  blue.  The  few  hotels  that  are  open  are 
all  yours,  and  you  can  have  any  sort  of  boat  almost 
for  the  asking. 

There  are  resorts  all  along  this  captivating  shore 
for  all  conditions  of  men  and  pockets,  each  with  some 
peculiar  charm  and  loveliness  of  its  own.  Nice  is 
more  of  a  city  than  any  of  the  rest,  and  while  it 
has  all  the  "attractions"  that  mar  the  other  places, 
it  also  has  more  comforts  for  those  in  moderate 
circumstances,  while  I  have  been  told  the  villa  colony 
is  at  least  approachable.  And  Monte  Carlo — where 
in  all  the  wide  creation  is  there  such  another  minia- 
ture paradise  as  this  Mediterranean  hill,  where  the\ 
green  tables  inside  keep  the  outside  gardens  green, 
and  the  whole  world  lays  its  tribute  under  the  wheels 
of  Juggernaut?     The  flower-scented  air  is  sick  with 

the  vitiation  of  mingled  blood  and  gold — ^you  cannot 

[129] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

escape  its  baleful  pervasiveness.  Three  days  were 
all  I  could  stand  of  that  atmosphere. 

Along  the  whole  shining  length  of  the  Riviera  I 
know  of  nothing  more  delightful  than  the  sail  across 
from  Cannes  to  the  lovely  lies  de  Lerins,  said  to 
have  been  named  for  the  Greek  pirate  Lero.  In  the 
season  a  little  steamer  runs  from  Croisette  Point; 
but  in  season  or  out  take  a  little  sailing  lugger,  and 
your  own  time,  and  go  as  you  please.  St.  Honorat, 
for  all  it  is  a  tiny  island,  possesses  by  far  the  most 
important  medieval  buildings  to  be  found  anywhere 
on  the  Riviera.  They  contain  some  of  the  features 
at  least  of  every  period  and  style  of  both  civic  and 
religious  Proven9al  art.  In  the  fifth  century,  St. 
Honorat  founded  a  monastery  here,  which  for  a 
very  considerable  period  was  the  chief  source  and 
focus  of  all  the  learning  and  culture  in  southern 
Gaul.  Missionaries  went  out  from  its  sheltering 
haven  to  carry  the  light  of  Christianity  and  civiliza- 
tion into  all  the  world,  not  the  least  famous  of  them 
that  Patrick  who  gave  faith  and  fame  alike  to  the 
Emerald  Isle. 

As  the  monastery  grew  in  riches,  the  murderous 
raids  of  the  Mediterranean  corsairs  became  more  fre- 
quent, until  finally  the  monks  built  them  a  strong 
castle,  rising  out  of  the  water  on  the  southern  side 
of  the  island.  But  even  that  did  not  always  save 
them;  once,  indeed,  the  pirates  held  the  castle  for 
a  whole  year,  and  were  driven  out  only  by  the  con- 
certed action  of  all  the  nobility  of  Provence.     Its 

[130  J 


u 


Si 


2 


u 

C 
o 

^>. 

§^ 

m 

o 


4J 

H 


GRASSE    AND   THE   RIVIERA 

object,  of  course,  was  first  of  all  to  provide  a  safe 
retreat,  and  its  appearance  outside  is  consequently 
military:  moated,  battlemented,  loopholed  and  port- 
cullised;  inside,  religious  and  monastic  from  top  to 
bottom,  with  cells,  refectory,  domestic  offices,  chapel, 
and  an  exquisitely  double-arched  cloister  which  be- 
lies the  stern  visage  on  the  other  side  of  walls  mel- 
lowed by  time  to  a  rich  golden  hue  that  harmonizes 
brilliantly  with  the  dark  green  of  the  pines  and  the 
blue  of  the  southern  sea  and  sky. 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century  the 
abbey  was  suppressed.  Nearly  a  century  later  it 
was  reconstituted,  and  occupied  by  Cistercians,  who 
still  have  an  orphanage  on  the  island.  A  highly 
perfumed  monk  showed  me  through  the  new  building. 
The  contrast  between  a  monkish  refectory  in  use, 
with  the  bottles  and  other  things  on  tables  cov- 
ered with  shiny  broTVTi  oilcloth,  and  the  deserted 
ones  usually  seen,  is  very  striking,  and  wakes  a 
sensation  in  you  of  being  part  of  the  past.  The 
old  cloister,  in  its  simple  Cistercian  style,  with  its 
round-headed  little  windows  instead  of  the  usual  large 
arcades  giving  upon  the  garden,  and  its  tunnel  vault- 
ing strengthened  by  transverse  ribs,  is  also  in  strong 
contrast  with  the  new  structure.  Of  the  seven  an- 
cient chapels  which  once  dotted  the  island  only  two 
remain.  That  of  St.  Trinite,  at  the  eastern  end  of 
the  island,  is  a  peculiar  domed  edifice  with  three 
apses,  and  without  doubt  one  of  the  very  oldest 
buildings  in  Provence. 

[131I 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

One  of  the  principal  charms  of  the  place  is  that 
you  can  visit  the  castle  and  roam  about  the  entire 
island  at  will,  unmolested  by  any  guide.  In  a  field 
we  saw  the  brothers  a-haying,  their  black  robes 
tucked  up,  their  heads  half  hidden  by  huge  straw 
hats,  looking  like  so  many  old  farmer-women.  Every- 
where aromatic  pines  have  made  a  springy  carpet 
of  their  needles  for  your  feet.  In  rows  and  groups 
and  columns  they  stand,  an  unforgetable  and  charm- 
ing population.  They  lean  over  the  water  to  caress 
its  shining  mirror,  and  their  slim,  graceful  bodies 
stripe  the  horizon  like  the  bars  of  a  cage,  through 
which  you  look  across  to  the  lie  Ste.  Marguerite. 
There  is  nothing  to  attract  one  on  Ste.  Marguerite 
now,  unless  he  cares  to  visit  the  fortress-prison  where 
the  famous  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask  was  so  long  con- 
fined. Richelieu  built  the  fortress,  which  was  later 
used  as  a  state  prison,  and  now  is  guarded  only  by  a 
caretaker,  who  shows  you  around. 

Originally,  tradition  says,  there  was  but  a  single 
island  there,  inhabited  on  one  side  by  St.  Honorat 
and  his  monks,  on  the  other  by  Ste.  Marguerite, 
his  sister,  and  her  nuns.  Being  very  fond  of  her 
austere  brother,  Ste.  Marguerite  used  to  visit  him 
at  the  monastery  every  month.  But  the  good  abbot, 
fearing  that  even  so  pure  a  thing  as  sisterly  affection 
might  deflect  his  thoughts  from  higher  and  holier 
things,  and  imperil  his  immortal  welfare,  finally  com- 
manded her  to  come  no  more.  In  his  cloister  he  spent 
the  night  in  prayer,  and  behold,  at  dawn  the  sea  had 

[132] 


GRASSE    AND    THE    RIVIERA 

made  two  islands  of  the  one !  Then  St.  Honorat  sent 
his  sister  word  that  he  would  cross  the  gulf  to  see 
her  each  year  when  the  cherry-trees  blossomed. 

She,  too,  then  spent  a  fervent  night  at  prayer, 
the  pretty  legend  runs,  and  when  the  ruddy  morning 
dawned,  lo !  the  cherry-trees  were  all  in  blossom, 
and  ever  after  that,  while  the  good  saints  lived,  the 
trees  blossomed  every  month,  and  St.  Honorat,  seeing 
that  Heaven  willed  him  not  to  forget  his  sister,  kept 
his  pledge,  and  saw  her  as  before. 


[133] 


XII 


OLD   PROVENCE 


MORE  than  twenty-five  centuries  ago  swarthy 
Phoenician  merchants  dotted  the  halcyon 
coasts  of  Provence  with  httle  posts  for 
trading  with  the  LIgurlan  Inhabitants.  Then  came 
the  colonizing  Greeks,  whose  civilization  molded  its 
life  until  the  Roman  conquest.  Under  Its  new  mas- 
ters, Provence  became  rich  and  favored — The  Prov- 
ince, Provlncia,  Provence — filled  with  the  monuments 
of  their  success,  elaborate  architecture  of  the  high 
tide  of  the  Empire's  greatness.  And  after  this  the 
deluge !  But  Provence,  far  removed  from  the  source 
of  these  new,  uncouth  Influences,  preserved  at  least 
relics  of  its  Latin  civilization  during  the  Dark  Ages, 
and  with  the  dawn  immediately  showed  life  in  music, 
art  and  literature. 

From  this  feeble  beginning  there  gradually  devel- 
oped all  that  wonderful  and  romantic  life  of  the 
period  of  chivalry,  with  Its  Courts  of  Love,  Its  trou- 
badours, its  devotion  as  much  to  making  verses  and 
singing  them  as  to  the  sterner  virtues  necessitated 
by  the  roughness  of  the  greater  world  beyond  the 
Proven9al  borders.    Luxury  and  perfume  were  in  the 

[1341 


OLD   PROVENCE 


native  air  of  Provence :  the  sunny,  enervating  climate 
predisposed  men  to  voluptuousness  rather  than  valor, 
and  as  the  resisting  power  of  the  province  waned 
by  degrees  her  national  pulse  beat  slower  and  slower, 
until  finally,  her  promise  unfulfilled,  she  slept  upon 
the  broad  bosom  of  La  Mere  France. 

Westward  along  the  ragged  coast  from  Cannes 
unrolls  a  resplendent  series  of  clean-cut  panoramas 
of  red,  white,  green,  blue.  Here  and  there,  as  at 
Theoule,  the  railway  runs  along  the  very  edge  of 
red  4?liiFs  that  slope  abruptly  down  to  the  sea,  which 
sweeps  into  the  distance,  where  the  Lerins  float  the 
castle  of  St.  Honorat,  clear  as  a  drop  of  golden 
honey,  in  the  sapphire  background.  So  vivid,  so 
lovely  are  these  views  that  no  one  who  has  not  seen 
them  can  gather  from  the  written  word  a  true  idea 
of  the  color,  beauty  and  placidity  of  the  picture. 

Fr^jus,  the  Forum  Julil  of  the  Romans,  is  a  big, 
rambling,  prosperous  town,  whose  Latin  remains  are 
rich  and  important,  and  whose  medieval  structures 
are  scarcely  less  engaging.  Forcqualqueiret-Gareoult 
— imagine  anybody  giving  two  towns  on  opposite 
sides  of  a  railroad  names  like  that  and  expecting 
the  trains  to  stop ! — ^boasts  chateaux,  old  and  crum- 
bling; so  does  Tourves,  where  a  Virgin,  on  a  spire  of 
rock  right  alongside  the  track,  looks  down  upon  her 
town  with  an  expression  of  melancholy.  Here  you 
see  a  church  with  the  typical  Proven9al  bell-tower 
above  its  spire,  a  bird-cage  of  Iron  rods  and  wires ; 
there  a  villa  whose  bulging  fafade  is  glaring  with 

[135] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

faience  plaque  monstrosities,  stuck  on  without  rea- 
son, or  regard  for  architectural  propriety,  and  add- 
ing a  gleam  of  savage  color  to  the  scene.  In  fact, 
it  is  the  strongly  contrasting  colors  both  in  nature 
and  in  "art,"  all  along  this  line,  that  give  the  scenery 
its  greatest  charm  and  distinction. 

St.  Maximin — and  again  late  afternoon.  Picture 
a  railway  station  on  a  lonely  swale  of  green,  sur- 
rounded by  oceans  of  powdery  white  dust  that  puffs 
up  in  an  impalpable  mist  at  every  step  of  the  horse 
that  pulls  the  rheumatic  old  omnibus  away  toward 
the  curve  in  the  road  where  the  town,  squatting  in 
its  dusty  basin  among  the  low  hills,  begins  to  appear, 
a  straggling  collection  of  sunbaked  houses  around  a 
church  whose  spire  is  both  too  slender  and  too  short. 
The  dust  is  stifling  and  hot ;  the  afternoon  sun  pours 
down  with  an  almost  tropic  fierceness ;  grass  and 
weeds  by  the  winding  roadside  are  white  instead  of 
green,  and  when  at  last  we  step  from  the  omnibus, 
at  the  hotel,  we  are  white,  too — more  like  millers  than 
travelers. 

Our  room  quickly  selected,  we  threw  open  the  shut- 
ters, and  were  astonished  to  see  our  coachman,  evi- 
dently a  "lightning-change  artist,"  arrayed  in  a 
chef's  full  regalia,  sitting  across  the  street,  talking 
to  a  woman  shopkeeper.  As  he  stayed  outside  until 
dinner  was  served,  some  two  hours  later,  he  must 
have  cooked  it  before  he  went  to  meet  the  train.  But 
for  all  that  the  dinner  was  better  than  we  had  in 

[136] 


OLD    PROVENCE 


many  a  would-be  Parisian  hostelry  elsewhere  in  the 
provinces,  where  we  never  saw  the  chef. 

Rambling  leisurely  through  the  streets  in  the 
gloaming  you  stumble  over  an  impossible  number 
of  children  and  pets :  tame  goats,  puppies,  kids,  mag- 
pies that  exclaim  "Oh!"  and  flap  heavily  off  a  few 
feet  when  you  come  too  close.  The  people  are  coming 
in  from  their  toil  in  the  fields,  on  foot,  in  donkey 
carts,  riding  big  plow-horses,  whose  chains  clank 
against  their  fat  sides.  Now  you  see  a  wiry  farmer 
and  his  buxom  spouse  crammed  into  a  child's-size 
cart,  pulled  by  a  little  ass  no  bigger  than  a  dog; 
now  two  simply  mountainous  old  women  on  the  skele- 
ton of  a  hay  wagon,  clucking  to  their  little  horse ; 
again,  a  female  huckster  crouching  in  her  market 
wagon,  drawn  by  panting  Fido,  who  makes  heavy 
weather  of  it,  but  trots  along  briskly.  A  woman 
appears  in  a  door  with  a  milk-can  full  of  water — 
woe  betide  you  if  you  get  in  her  splashsome  way ! 
The  town  is  settling  down  for  the  night,  washing 
its  dusty  face  and  getting  its  dinner.  Two  hours 
later  the  sudden  cry  of  a  wakeful  magpie  in  a  garden 
is  loud  and  startling.  You  can  hear  a  pin  drop  in 
St.  Maximin  by  nine  o'clock. 

Here  we  come  upon  one  of  the  strangest  of  all  the 
religious  legends  of  France,  a  story  that  accounts 
with  great  circumstance  for  the  introduction  of  the 
new  religion  so  speedily  to  supplant  paganism.  After 
the  final  scene  on  Calvary  the  little  band  of  relatives 
and  disciples  scattered  before  the  determined  perse- 

[  137  ] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

cutions  of  the  malignant  Jews,  and  several — Lazarus, 
Martha,  Mary  Magdalen,  Mary  JacobI,  sister  of  the 
Virgin,  Mary  Salome,  the  mother  of  James,  Tro- 
phime,  Maximin,  and  others — miraculously  escaped 
to  southern  France,  where  they  are  severally  com- 
memorated in  shrines  and  churches,  often  of  great 
beauty. 

The  big  church  here  is  the  most  perfect  specimen 
of  the  Gothic  in  Provence,  strikingly  out  of  conso- 
nance with  its  surroundings.  It  might,  indeed,  have 
been  transported  bodily  from  the  lie  de  France.  Its 
lofty,  simple,  pointed  vaulting  and  arches  are  light 
and  airy,  and  the  effect  must  have  been  very  beau- 
tiful when  the  long,  slim  windows,  which  reduce  the 
masonry  to  its  smallest  limits,  were  filled  with  stained 
glass.  The  contrast  with  the  usually  dark  and 
gloomy  southern  churches  must  also  have  been  great. 
Yet  it  may  have  been  glaring,  too,  in  the  brilliant 
light  of  the  south.  We  can  only  guess  at  it,  for 
the  stained  glass  is  mostly  gone,  and  the  aisle  win- 
dows are  closed  by  added  side  chapels. 

The  wood  sculptures  throughout  the  interior  are 
excellent,  the  choir  stalls  carved  with  scenes  from 
the  lives  and  martyrdoms  of  old-time  Dominican 
monks.  If  these  wooden  pictures  are  historically 
accurate,  the  Dominican  brethren  must  have  had  an 
amusing  time  dying.  One,  for  example,  is  shown 
half  hanged,  recumbent,  with  a  pleasant-faced  soldier 
hacking  out  a  large  section  of  him  with  a  dull  sword. 
It  is  highly  instructive — swords  ought  to  be  sharper ! 


OLD    PROVENCE 


The  chief  treasure  of  the  church,  however,  is  not 
carving,  but  the  highly  venerated  object  which  pur- 
ports to  be  the  skull  of  St.  Mary  Magdalen.  Above 
the  eye-sockets  are  two  dark  spots,  which  the  sacris- 
tan declared  are  the  finger-prints  of  the  Christ,  who 
touched  her  on  His  way  to  Calvary.  The  legend 
says  that  the  Magdalen  lived  as  a  hermit  for  a  long 
time,  and  died  in  the  cave  at  Ste.  Baume,  nine  and 
a  half  miles  away.  One  of  the  many  excellent  pic- 
tures in  the  church  at  St.  Maximin  shows  her  re- 
nouncing the  world  by  throwing  her  pearl  collar  to 
the  floor  of  the  dripping  cave,  which  is  covered  with 
unset  gems.  It  is  a  very  pleasant  little  pilgrimage 
to  the  hermitage-shrine  of  Ste.  Baume,  if  you  can 
spare  the  time,  and  the  beauty  and  wildness  of  the 
location  repay  you  for  the  exertion. 

Eight  miles  further  on,  toward  Aix,  the  little 
town  of  Pourrleres  marks  one  of  the  bloodiest  fields 
the  world  has  ever  seen  in  any  age,  the  Campi  Putridi, 
literally,  "Stinking  Fields,"  where  Marius  the  Ro- 
man, with  a  skill  matched  only  by  his  ruthless  fe- 
rocity, practically  wiped  out  of  existence  the  vast 
barbarian  horde  which  had  swarmed  down,  with 
women  and  children  and  chattels,  from  the  bleak 
shores  of  the  Baltic  to  the  sunny  lands  of  southern 
Europe.  More  than  100,000  fell,  and  300,000  more 
Marius  sold  into  slavery  all  along  the  southern  shore 
they  had  risked  so  much  to  reach.  Then,  as  so  many 
of  the  Israelitlsh  captains  of  BibHcal  history  had 
been  commanded  to  do  before  him,  the  Roman  reared 

[139] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

a  huge  pyre  on  the  scene  of  his  triumph,  and  the 
bodies,  and  all  the  plunder  he  could  not  carry  away, 
roared  up  to  the  heavens  on  wings  of  fire,  whose 
traces  were  easily  uncovered  centuries  after  Rome 
herself  had  ceased  to  be  an  empire. 

With  the  shadow  of  the  Campi  Putridi  still  hang- 
ing over  us,  we  come  to  Aix,  the  charming,  sleepy, 
modern-medieval  city  that  grew  up  from  the  ruins 
of  Aquae  Sextise,  the  first  Roman  settlement  in  Gaul. 
The  barbarians  who  smote  the  Roman  city  did  their 
work  thoroughly.  Only  a  bit  of  wall  here,  a  pillar 
there,  and  a  few  fragments  in  the  museum,  tell  the 
story  of  the  early  days.  But  memory  in  Aix  is  not 
of  the  beginning;  it  is  of  the  end,  for  here  dwelt 
good  King  Rene,  here  were  the  Courts  of  Love,  the 
troubadours,  the  good  wine  and  fair  women,  and 
song  and  laughter,  that  gave  Provence  its  fame — 
and  its  fate. 

All  the  sunny  charm  and  glamour  of  Old  Provence 
opens  before  you  in  the  leafy,  square-trimmed  tunnel 
of  V^es  up  the  Cours  Mirabeau,  that  parts  the  mod- 
ern Aix  from  the  old.  It  is  a  long,  narrow,  dirt- 
floored  promenade  between  the  sycamores,  with  a  cob- 
bled road,  and  a  scanty  sidewalk  on  either  hand,  and 
a  series  of  fountains,  mossy  and  dripping  and  green, 
up  the  center.  And  at  its  head,  looking  down  as 
though  to  greet  you  in  the  favorite  city  of  his  smiling 
kingdom,  stands  the  effigy  of  Rene  himself.  Count  of 
Provence,  Due  d'Anjou,  de  Bar  and  de  Lorraine, 
King  of  the  Two  Sicilies  and  of  Jerusalem.     The 

[  140] 


OLD    PROVENCE 


tide  of  life  flows  lazily  by  in  the  brilliant  sunshine 
at  right  and  left,  the  fountains  plash,  and  the  breeze 
that  elsewhere  makes  the  dusty  streets  unbearable 
here  whispers  a  suggestive  requiem  for  the  all  but 
forgotten  past. 

After  rambling  through  a  labyrinthine  tangle  of 
streets  and  barren  squares  in  the  older  part  of  town 
you  find  him  again,  gazing  out  from  one  of  the 
panels  of  a  fine  tryptich  in  the  Cathedral.  A  young 
king  on  the  Cours  Mirabeau — how  he  would  have 
wept  over  such  a  name  and  its  associations ! — he  is 
old  and  gray  in  the  great  church,  yet  still  the  poet- 
king,  still  the  well-beloved  of  his  people.  Rene  him- 
self painted  it,  they  of  Aix  would  have  us  believe. 
But  no — artist  and  poet  and  musician  though  he 
may  have  been,  Rene  did  not  paint  himself  and  his 
second  queen,  Jeanne  de  Laval,  in  these  panels  of 
the  Burning  Bush.  The  artist,  whose  identity  is  dis- 
puted, was  evidently  a  Fleming,  since  the  work  is  a 
fine  specimen  of  the  Flemish  style. 

The  Cathedral  is  a  curious  composite.  The  ancient 
church  of  St.  Sauveur,  believed  to  have  been  built 
on  a  part  of  the  cellar  of  a  temple  to  Apollo,  dating 
from  1103,  now  forms  the  southern  aisle  of  the  fif- 
teenth century  Cathedral.  Still  more  unusual  is  the 
tiny  octagonal  baptistery,  said  to  date  from  the 
sixth  century.  Its  eight  antique  granite  columns, 
from  the  old  Temple  of  Apollo,  support  a  dome 
whose  modern  stucco  finish  spoils  the  character  of 
the  whole  structure.     I  believe  that  there  are  only 

[141 J 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

two  other  baptisteries  like  this  in  the  whole  of 
France. 

The  beautiful  Romanesque  cloister  of  St.  Sauveur 
is  distinguished  by  the  boundless  resource  and  variety 
of  its  white  marble  sculpture,  columns  that  range 
from  plain  cylinders  to  fretted  octagons,  from 
straight  to  bent  and  twisted  and  even  knotted  shafts, 
surmounted  by  elaborately  carved  capitals.  The  dull, 
faded  red  of  the  brick  pavement  makes  a  pleasing 
background  for  their  pallid  beauty.  The  central 
doors  of  the  western  fa9ade,  with  their  prophets 
and  sibyls,  are  richly  carved  early  sixteenth  century 
work.  They  are  jealously  guarded  from  the  equally 
destructive  hands  of  time  and  vandal  by  stout  oaken 
false  doors,  that  swing  open  only  to  the  silver  key 
you  drop  into  the  willing  verger's  palm. 

Westward,  from  Aix  to  Rognac,  you  pass  under 
a  prodigy  of  modern  architecture,  the  towering, 
three-storied  aqueduct  of  Roquefavour,  that  carries 
the  water  of  the  Durance  fifty-seven  miles  to  Mar- 
seilles. It  runs  among  the  little  hills,  a  gleaming 
ribbon,  a  thing  of  beaten  gold,  arch  rising  above 
arch,  striding  easily  across  the  green  little  vale 
through  wliich  the  engine  shrieks. 

At  Rognac  we  changed  to  the  main  line  for  Aries. 
We  had  been  on  slow,  small  trains,  going  away  from 
Paris,  so  long  that  when  a  big,  fast  train  came  in, 
marked  "Paris,"  we  did  not  recognize  it  as  ours. 
Calmly  we  leaned  back  and  watched  passengers  aHght 
and  embark,  the  guards  bang  the  doors  shut,  the 

[142] 


OLD    PROVENCE 


*^ 


exchange  of  those  touching  little  courtesies  between 
trainmen  and  station  employes  which  are  a  part  of 
every  train  departure.  Suddenly  we  looked  at  one 
another  and  asked,  "Aren't  we  going  toward  Paris?" 
And  then  what  a  scramble!  Not  a  porter,  not  a 
railroad  employe  of  any  stripe  was  visible,  and  the 
luggage  was  heavy  and  plentiful.  But  the  lone 
French  lady  in  the  compartment  we  stormed  gallantly 
dragged  in  bags  and  cameras,  quite  as  excited  as 
we,  and  infinitely  more  expressive,  and  finished  by 
hauling  us  in  afterward.  Everything  was  neatly  ar- 
ranged in  the  baggage  racks,  we  had  our  breaths, 
made  our  apologies  decently,  and  rested  a  while  before 
the  train  started  leisurely  on  its  northward  journey. 
The  long  Etang  de  Berre,  a  big  salt  lake,  runs 
for  miles  beside  the  track,  blue  and  ruffled,  its  farther 
shore  black  and  misty  in  the  distance.  The  region 
is  wild  and  hilly,  covered  with  olive  plantations  that 
alternate  with  scrubby  patches  of  gorse  and  heather. 
On  the  right  rises  a  mountain  covered  with  peculiar 
formations  so  like  a  huge  castle  that,  with  a  little 
imagination,  you  can  see  sentries  patrolling  its  walls, 
and  the  pinnacles  and  bastions  that  have  all  the 
seeming  of  ruined  outworks  and  watch-towers.  And 
then  that  wonderful,  shining,  absolutely  barren  desert 
of  the  Crau^  a  slightly  rolling  plain  covered  still 
with  the  stones  Jupiter  showered  down  upon  the  sons 
of  Neptune  to  save  his  favorite,  Hercules.  Trees 
and  a  little  vegetation  there  are  beside  and  near 
the  track;  but  beyond,  only  a  vast  yellow  prairie 

[143] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

of  stones.  The  very  sheep  that  turn  over  the  larger 
rocks  for  a  scanty  nibble  of  the  whitish  grass  un- 
derneath, seem  big  stones  themselves,  and  the  meager 
fringe  of  trees  in  the  distance  is  sere  and  gaunt. 
The  lake  turns  green  near  shore,  blue  farther  out, 
and  streaked  everywhere  with  black  ripples,  the  fiery 
horses  of  the  North  Wind,  that  toss  their  little  white 
manes  pettishly.  Comes  then  a  low,  marshy  point, 
jeweled  with  shining  pools,  and  the  lake  vanishes 
behind.  Then  a  few  miles  more,  and,  through  a  mar- 
velously  fertile  and  marshy  district,  with  a  rush  and 
a  roar  the  train  draws  into  the  City  of  Lovely 
Women. 


[144I 


XIII 


"a     dream     of     fair     wome  n" 


B 


'  '  1  ^  EHOLD  a  marvel  under  the  sun."  No  mat- 
ter what  it  is  in  Aries  that  draws  you 
thither,  the  glory  of  supreme  Roman  arch- 
itecture, the  reminiscences  of  Greek  days,  or  the  su- 
perficial interests  of  modern  travel  ;no  matter  whether 
one  or  all  of  these  things  most  interest  you  while 
there,  no  sooner  are  you  away  than  the  city  becomes 
the  soft,  blurry  background  of  a  dream,  through 
which  move  the  sweet  and  stately,  the  fair  and  cap- 
tivating daughters  of  Aries. 

From  the  importance  of  the  position  of  Aries,  at 
the  head  of  the  Rhone  delta,  and  in  the  older  days 
upon  vast  navigable  lagoons  that  communicated  with 
the  sea,  all  the  different  peoples  of  this  southern  lit- 
toral must  have  had  a  part  in  the  city's  early  life. 
Of  them  all,  Rome  alone  has  left  us  imperishable  his- 
tory and  monuments.  No  tangible  evidence  remains 
of  the  earlier  Greek  days,  though  we  find  Hellenic  in- 
fluence pervasive  in  architecture ;  and  nowhere  in  the 
world — not  even  in  Greece  itself,  according  to  one  au- 
thority— are  there  more  perfect  examples  of  the  old 
Greek  type,  physically,  than  in  the  women  of  Aries. 

[145], 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA    TO    SEA 

T^ere  are  only  t^o  hotels  in  town,  both  of  them 
in  the  Place  du  Forum,  which  has  remained  in  the 
center  of  the  city  from  Roman  times.  It  has  been 
written  that,  no  matter  which  hotel  you  choose,  you 
win  wish  you  had  gone  to  the  other.  I  can  vouch 
for  only  half  of  the  statement.  Starting"  out  from 
the  Place,  the  thing  that  most  impresses  you  at 
first  is  not  the  Arlesiennes,  but  the  curious  bits  of 
architecture  thrusting  out  at  every  comer:  old 
houses,  whose  walls  bear  only  a  carved  window-Untel, 
a  comer  second-story  Mrgin.  a  part  of  some  old 
Roman  carving,  a  bit  of  Renaissance  superficial  friexe 
or  decoration.  Then,  near  the  crossing  of  the  mes 
de  la  Bastille  and  des  Arenes,  you  see  the  Amphithea- 
ter. The  effect  is  stunning.  And  with  the  Arlesi- 
ennes  sitting  on  their  doorsteps  on  either  side  the 
picture  is  complete  in  the  narrow  street,  scarce  eight 
feet  wide,  but  very  clean,  with  whitewashed  houses 
and  raised  doorsteps  undercut  for  a  gutter  passage. 

This  Amphitheater  of  Aries,  the  largest  in  France, 
is  in  the  familiar  elliptical  form  and  two  stories 
high,  sixty  arches  in  each,  built  of  great  blocks 
of  stone  so  accurately  fitted  together  that  no  cement 
is  necessary;  and  even  to-day,  after  centuries  of 
neglect  and  decay,  many  of  its  elaborate  moldings 
and  other  carved  decorations  are  to  be  seen.  The 
imperial  entrance,  at  the  southern  end  of  the  ellipse, 
which  measures  about  Gve  hundred  feet  in  length 
by  some  three  hundred  and  fifty  in  width,  is  open, 
and  you  go  in   to  the  noise  of  a  wild  beast — the 

Im6] 


"A    DREAM   OF    FAIR   WOMEN** 

custodian's  barking  terrier,  who  welcomes  anything 
to  break  the  monotony  of  the  blood-stained  silence. 
But  neither  dog  nor  man  follows :  you  stand  alone 
where  twenty-six  thousand  spectators  at  once  used 
to  enjoy  the  hideous  spectacles  of  the  arena  at  the 
expense  of  the  Emperor  in  the  palmy  days  of  Roman 
Gaul. 

During  the  Middle  Ages  the  Amphitheater  was 
transformed  into  a  fortress,  €uid  four  towers  built 
upon  it ;  three  of  them  still  remain.  After  its  use 
had  passed  as  a  strong  defense  it  became  the  noisome 
labyrinth  where  the  human  dregs  of  Aries  festered 
in  disease  and  crime.  Many  a  reminder  of  those 
days  and  people  you  find  as  3'ou  walk  among  the 
silent  arcades — here  a  soot-blackened  ceiling,  there 
parts  of  a  shattered  stair,  yonder  rude  attempts  to 
fresco  the  wall.  An  indescribable  atmosphere  clings 
about  it  all,  and  I  felt,  even  more  than  in  the  Coliseum 
itself,  a  something  I  could  neither  define  nor  analyze, 
yet  which  sprang  from  this  great  house  of  death, 
consecrated  by  blood  and  tears,  and  standing  yet 
a  monument  to  Roman  pride  and  degradation. 

A  pleasanter  side  of  Roman  life  is  indicated  by 
the  twin  columns,  the  bits  of  Corinthian  molding  and 
the  shattered  marble  ornaments  of  the  great  theater, 
where  the  higher  culture  of  the  Greeks  is  writ  so 
large.  The  seats  have  recently  been  restored,  so 
that  we  have  an  excellent  idea  of  the  magnitude  of 
the  building,  which  seated  no  less  than  sixteen  thou- 
sand persons.     Apparentlv  ten  thousand  less  cared 

1 147 1 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 


for  the  play  than  for  the  real  tragedies  of  the  arena. 
Among  the  ruins  in  1^51  was  discovered  an  exquisite 
work  of  Greek  art,  the  Venus  d'Arles,  now  in  the 
Louvre. 

Many  other  impressive  relics  have  been  gathered 
into  the  Lapidary  Museum  in  the  ancient  church  of 
Ste.  Anne.  The  collection  is,  I  believe,  unique  in 
France;  certainly  I  have  never  seen  another  in  which 
the  percentage  of  fine  specimens  to  trash  is  so  large, 
"the  Grecian  descent  and  culture  of  the  country," 
as  Mr.  McGibbon  remarks,  "being  distinctly  observ- 
able in  these  monuments."  Among  the  treasures  are 
several  inspiring  figures,  full  of  the  joy  of  life  and 
sport:  Greek  dancers,  of  swaying,  yielding  lines, 
brimming  over  with  plastic  grace  despite  cruel  mu- 
tilations ;  a  bust  of  the  Empress  Livia,  Junoesque  and 
frigid ;  and  an  altar  to  the  Bona  Dea,  the  Good 
Goddess  of  dim  eastern  lineage.  Upon  the  face  of 
this  great  Earth-Mother,  man  might  not  gaze  and 
live,  so  on  the  marble  block  is  carved  a  delicate  oaken 
wreath,  within  which  the  semblance  of  an  ear  is 
embayed  at  either  side.  Thus,  if  man  might  not 
see  his  dread  divinity,  he  might,  at  least,  be  sure  his 
petitions  would  reach  her  ready  ear. 

Among  the  sarcophagi  which  form  the  principal 
part  of  the  collection,  are  splendid  pagan*  and  Chris- 
tian tombs,  a  progressive  series,  as  it  were,  clearly 
indicating  the  transitional  styles  from  the  Greek  to 
the  fully  developed  Roman,  and  from  that  on  into 
Christian  times.  Most  of  them  came  from  Alyscamps, 

[148] 


"A    DREAM    OF    FAIR   WOMEN" 

as  the  Arlesiens  call  the  old  Roman  cemetery  of  the 
Elysii  Campi,  the  Elysian  Fields.  When  the  pagan 
gods  had  passed,  St.  Trophime,  Bishop  of  Aries, 
consecrated  the  spot  for  Christian  sepulture,  and 
himself  was  laid  to  rest  there.  Ariosto  and  Dante 
sang  its  fame  to  all  the  world,  princes  of  Church 
and  State  chose  it  for  their  long  sleep,  and  at  one 
time  no  less  than  nineteen  churches  and  mortuary 
chapels  stood  about  its  verdant  close.  Bodies  were 
even  sent  down  the  Rhone  in  barrels,  with  money 
for  decent  burial,  and  it  is  said  that  the  kindly  river 
always  swung  the  grisly  cargo  in  beside  the  plot 
where  all  would  lie.  But  when,  in  the  middle  of  the 
twelfth  century,  St.  Trophime's  body  was  taken  from 
it  to  repose  in  his  Cathedral,  the  prestige  of  Alys- 
camps  departed,  and  it  rapidly  fell  into  disuse  and 
decay.  Its  classic  monuments  and  sarcophagi  were 
ruthlessly  plundered.  Many  were  sent  broadcast 
throughout  France,  and  even  to  Rome,  as  models 
of  classic  art,  and  the  few  that  remained  a  benighted 
generation  turned  into  watering-troughs  for  cattle 
and  bridges  over  ditches  in  the  fields.  The  latter 
have  been  rescued  from  their  oblivion,  fortunately, 
and  ranged  in  a  solemn  row  at  either  side  of  the 
long  avenue  of  tall,  slender  trees,  through  which 
the  pitying  wind  whispers,  and  the  sunlight  filters 
to  dapple  tomb  and  roadway  alike  with  gold  and 
gray. 

Out  near  the  Rhone,  almost  entirely  shut  in  by 
mean  modern  buildings,  are  the  scanty  remains  of 

[  149  1 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

what  is  said  to  have  been  the  palace  Constantine 
built  in  the  fourth  century,  when  Aries  was  approach- 
ing the  zenith  of  her  glory.  The  city  of  the  lagoons 
was  a  favorite  with  the  Emperor,  who  made  it  a 
splendid  seat  of  government,  worthy  its  reputation 
of  being  a  smaller  Rome ;  and  the  people  of  Aries 
under  the  imperial  rule  lived  as  became  the  citizens 
of  a  capital,  among  scenes  of  beauty,  richness  and 
profligate  enjoyment  such  as  Gaul  had  never  before 
witnessed. 

The  Romanesque  Cathedral,  dedicated  to  St.  Tro- 
phime,  is  dignified  by  one  of  the  fairest,  most  ma- 
jestic porches  southern  French  architecture  has  ever 
produced — a  massive  twelfth  century  archway,  which 
enthrones  a  Christ,  surrounded  by  the  emblems  of 
the  four  evangelists ;  a  lintel  where  the  Twelve  sit 
in  benign  meditation,  and  friezes  of  the  redeemed  and 
the  damned  on  either  hand.  Its  effect  is  enhanced 
by  the  almost  plain  front  wall  of  the  church,  and 
by  the  steps  that  raise  it  from  actual  contact  with 
the  busy  market  square.  The  snow-white,  simple  and 
very  impressive  nave,  with  its  pointed  barrel  vault- 
ing, is  an  excellent  example — typical  of  the  revulsion 
against  earlier  and  richer  forms — of  the  rigidly  aus- 
tere Cistercian  style  found  In  the  second  period  of 
Proven9al  architecture.  But  the  most  beautiful  part 
of  the  structure  is  the  twelfth  century  cloisters  ad- 
joining, rich  beyond  anything  save  a  catalogue  in 
their  Proven9al  fiorldity  of  details.  Sunny,  pleasant 
cloisters  they  are,  where  every  prospect  pleases — but 

[150] 


V 

ji 

■*-' 

J3 

y 

^ 

^ 

TJ 

C 

3 

O 

u 

^ 

■M 

V 

nJ 

u 

V 

v 

'VJZ 

<-t-i 
O 

M 
O 

(U 

6 

w 

•M 

3 

nl 

O 

j:: 

V 

-M 

3 

n 

rt 

(U 

^ 

Ui 

bfl 

CA 

rt 

V 

^ 

TJ 

M 

c 

V 

< 

c 

CO 

<-i-i 

o 

u 

dJ 

4-> 

rt 

0) 

x: 

+-> 

iH 

a 

6 

< 

a> 

J3 

H 

"A    DREAM    OF    FAIR   WOMEN" 

the  sexton.  That  worthy  pirate  ought  to  be  immo- 
lated upon  a  pyre  of  the  signs  he  has  posted  all 
about  the  sacred  close:  "Remember  the  Concierge!" 
Remember  him?  Can  any.  one  who  has  been  herded 
about  those  lovely  precincts,  cornered  at  last,  made 
to  pay,  and  then  thrust  out  into  an  unsympathetic 
world,  fail  to  remember  him? 

And  yet  all  thought  of  him  is  wiped  away  clean 
of  a  Sunday  morning,  when  you  stand  in  the  dazzling 
sunshine  beside  the  obelisk  in  the  middle  of  the  Place 
de  la  Republique,  the  cathedral  shimmering  in  the 
heat-waves  before  you,  the  azure  sky  overhead  and 
all  about  the  pretty  Arlesiennes  of  the  cameo  profiles 
coming  from  mass.  And  yet — is  "pretty"  exactly 
the  word?  No.  Often  they  are  not  pretty  at  all,  as 
we  use  the  word.  What  are  they?  you  ask.  Cer- 
tainly not  Frenchwomen.  Is  it  the  fetching  coif  and 
fichu  that  give  them  their  air?  Are  they  Greek? 
Are  they  Roman?  Are  they  Saracen?  Surely  all 
three,  and  more.  Wealth  and  station  in  life  have 
nothing  to  do  with  their  superb  appearance.  One 
ancient  Arlesienne  I  remember,  clearly  a  woman  of 
the  people,  seventy,  stalwart,  hawk-eyed,  visaged  like 
a  Cassar,  and  walking  with  a  staflf*.  She  lived  in  a 
house  facing  the  Amphitheater,  and  the  first  time 
I  saw  her  she  was  proceeding  majestically  down  the 
street,  greeting  her  neighbors  with  dignity — and  I 
simply  did  not  have  the  effrontery  to  take  her  pic- 
ture. Another  day  I  came  back,  and  deliberately 
stalked  her.     Though  by  neither  look  nor  word  did 

[151] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

she  acknowledge  my  presence,  she  knew  why  I  had 
returned.  Yet,  in  spite  of  plenty  of  opportunity, 
I  could  not  trespass  upon  her  grand  air.  The  picture 
is  still  untaken. 

Another,  a  woman  of  thirty-five,  perhaps,  stood 
upon  the  stoop  of  a  house  in  a  tiny  side  street — a 
Saracen  beauty,  dark  and  slender,  with  black  eyes 
that  belied  her  calm  dignity.  I  approached  with 
elaborate  carelessness.  Not  by  the  flicker  of  an 
eyelid  did  she  deign  to  notice  me,  and  I  fatuously 
thought  she  was  deliberately  posing — the  daughters 
of  Provence  have  always  been  charged  with  being 
coquettes.  As  I  raised  my  camera  she  looked  calmly 
through  me,  turned  without  haste  and  vanished  into 
the  house.  Fortunately,  though,  she  left  a  record 
of  herself  elsewhere.  Prowling  through  a  local  pho- 
tographer's shop  one  day,  I  found,  and  he  basely 
sold,  the  picture.  And  if  she  whose  features  forever 
made  the  bit  of  paper  radiant  should  ever  see  this, 
may  she  forgive  the  trespass  and  approve  the  motive. 

Follow  the  after-church  parade  down  to  the  Lice, 
where  the  rich  sunlight  spatters  through  the  leaves 
upon  an  endless  procession.  Colors  there  are,  of 
course,  but  the  most  beautiful  costume  is  the  long 
black  gown,  gathered  and  full  and  sweeping,  the 
soft,  sheer,  white  fichu  crossed  modestly  upon  the 
breast;  the  hair  parted,  and  brought  down  softly 
over  the  ears,  then  gathered  up  in  a  crowning  knot, 
covered  with  white — a  bit  of  lace,  perhaps,  or  a  tiny 
piece  of  flimsy   cambric — and  bound   around  by   a 

[152] 


"A    DREAM    OF    FAIR    WOMEN" 

broad  band  of  black  ribbon  or  velvet,  with  one  free 
end  behind.  It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that  now- 
adays there  are  too  many  in  the  Sunday  parade  who 
affect  the  Parisian  styles  with  their  banalities — 
Frenchwomen  they  must  be. 

One  day  in  the  hotel  dining-room  an  old  Proven- 
9al,  who  looked  half  Don  Quixote  and  half  Frederic 
Mistral,  was  talking  poetry,  art  and  letters  with  his 
companions.  A  big  Englishman  came  in,  and  glared 
about  for  a  seat  fiercely,  but  quite  without  animosity. 
For  some  reason  he  stepped  back  into  the  hall,  and 
the  Proven9al,  who  had  frowned,  and  stopped  talk- 
ing, at  his  entrance,  threw  up  both  hands  over  his 
head  wildly  and  barked:  ''Woof!  Woof!  Woof! 
These  English !  Huge  animals  they  are !  Woof!  I 
can  no  longer  talk  of  poetry  in  the  presence  of  so 
huge  a  creature!"  The  Englishman,  coming  back 
just  then,  evidently  heard,  and  striding  over  near 
him  said  in  excellent  French  that  all  could  hear: 
"Waiter,  give  me  a  good  seat,  but  don't  put  me  too 
near  that  old  Burgundy  snail.  I  might  eat  him  by 
mistake !" 

Dear  old  jouglar,  with  his  little  rages  and  his 
fierce,  yard-long  mustaches !  He  is  only  a  soft  blur 
in  the  distance  now.  Blurred,  too,  are  the  Roman 
ruins,  the  fine  Cathedral,  the  gray  river — mere  deli- 
cate bits  of  light  and  shade  in  the  background  of  the 
dream  of  Aries,  through  which  always  stately,  always 
appealing,  weave  the  clear  figures  of  those  fair 
women,  neither  Greek,  nor  Saracen,  nor  Homan,  nay, 

[  153  ] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

nor    even    Proven9ale,    but    wholly    Arlesiennes    and 
stirring. 

Desert !  and  then  the  sea.  A  formless,  straggling 
town  about  a  fortified  church  some  goldsmith  might 
have  carved  from  a  block  of  old  gold,  a  few  bare 
streets,  a  handful  of  untidy  people  and  shambling 
white  houses,  some  peasants  playing  boules  on  the 
salt-meadow  square  between  town  and  sea,  gaudy 
fishing-boats  on  the  gentle  beach,  and  a  great  black 
cross  for  the  fishermen  upon  the  dunes — this  is 
Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer,  and  who  cannot  be  rev- 
erent in  the  little  town  had  best  not  come. 

From  Aries,  the  route  to  The  Saints — as  the  natives 
say — lies  through  the  wild  and  desolate  Camargue, 
the  Rhone  delta.  It  is  a  vast  flat,  three  hundred 
square  miles  in  area,  only  a  few  feet  above  the  sea, 
and  the  occasional  farm  or  ranch  serves  only  to 
emphasize  its  general  emptiness.  The  train  rattled 
over  the  atrocious  roadbed  with  doors  and  windows 
wide  open,  to  give  smoke  and  cinders  from  the  loco- 
motive good  circulation.  Our  companions,  simple 
folk  of  the  Camargue,  shouted  back  and  forth  among 
themselves,  and  tiring  of  this,  drew  both  engineer 
and  fireman  into  their  conversation.  Those  worthies, 
turning  their  backs  upon  their  tasks,  leaned  over 
the  after-rail  and  chatted  pleasantly  while  the  engine 
bumped  along  unwatched  and  uncontrolled.  So  we 
hung  out  of  the  windows  and  kept  watch  ourselves. 

When  the  three  Marys  and  their  companion  saints 

[  154  ] 


"A   DREAM    OF   FAIR   WOMEN" 


landed  in  safety  after  their  miraculous  voyage  the 
younger  members  of  the  party  scattered,  to  fulfill 
their  vow  of  consecration  as  missionaries ;  but  Mary 
Jacobi  and  Mary  Salome,  already  advanced  in  years, 
stayed  by  the  sea,  teaching,  preaching,  and  healing 
the  folk  of  the  Camargue,  while  their  faithful  black 
maid  Sarah  scoured  the  district  for  food  for  them 
all.  Eventually  she  became  the  patroness  of  the  gip- 
sies, and  they  come  by  scores  and  hundreds  every 
year,  a  swarthy,  sweating,  disorderly  crew,  to  ven- 
erate the  relics  of  the  black  saint  they  consider 
peculiarly  their  own,  and  to  pray  for  her  aid  and 
the  aid  of  her  mistresses  in  healing.  Through  the 
thin,  nervous  lips  of  the  little  curate,  who  held  me, 
like  some  Ancient  Mariner,  with  the  glint  of  his 
fanatic  eye,  I  saw  it  all.  Was  he  watching  me  for 
signs  of  doubt  or  wavering  dnterest.'^  Whatever 
the  reason,  he  was  apparently  satisfied,  and  gave  the 
whole  graphic  story  of  the  annual  May  madness. 

Immediately  the  religious  ceremonies  are  over,  the 
gipsies  hitch  up  their  crazy,  shabby  wagons,  and 
trail  out  once  more  into  the  Camargue.  But  the 
townspeople  and  the  visitors  turn  to  the  social  func- 
tions of  horse-racing  and  bull-baiting.  Our  little 
curate  seemed  to  see  nothing  incongruous  in  this,  but 
cheerily  explained  the  bull-fight — not  a  fight  at  all, 
really,  but  a  game,  in  which  a  man  tries  to  snatch 
a  cockade  from  between  a  bull's  horns — and  often 
the  "bull"  is  a  cow!  The  church  and  the  vicarage 
actually  form  part  of  the  arena,  the  rest  being  made 

[  155  ] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

up  of  a  collapsible  five-bar  fence,  the  massive  rails 
of  which  lie  around  in  piles  when  not  in  use.  The 
loungers  about  the  little  place  were  very  ready  to 
supplement  the  curate's  story  of  the  bulls,  but  they 
shied  off  when  the  Saintes  Maries  were  mentioned. 
Have  they,  like  so  many  other  Frenchmen,  lost  their 
ancient  faith,  or  did  they  fear  a  disbelieving  listener? 

The  church  itself,  a  remarkable  twelfth  century 
structure,  built  on  the  site  of  an  earlier  one  de- 
stroyed by  Saracen  pirates,  is  typical  of  the  fortified 
religious  edifices  to  be  found  throughout  southern 
France.  Its  exposed  position  on  the  shore,  where 
these  murderous  raiders  were  always  a  danger,  ac- 
counts for  its  high  and  massive  walls,  surmounted 
all  around  by  battlements,  and  protected  at  the  east- 
ern end  by  what  in  a  secular  building  would  be  the 
keep  or  donjon.  Here  it  is  a  three-storied  chapel 
tower.  In  the  lower  story,  or  crypt,  are  the  relics 
of  Sarah ;  the  second  forms  the  choir  of  the  church ; 
and  above  is  the  reliquary-chapel  of  the  Maries. 

It  all  took  on  a  special  color  and  significance  in 
our  eyes  after  the  curate's  turgid  narrative,  and  in 
lieu  of  the  bare  stone  walls,  the  tawdry  fixtures,  and 
the  pathetic  ex-votos,  we  could  see  only  the  eager 
throng,  the  smoking  candles,  hear  the  shouts  of  Vive 
les  S amies!  and  the  full-throated  singing  that  so 
eloquently  bespeaks  the  blind  faith  which  in  itself 
has  wrought  many  miracles. 

As  we  came  away,  the  picture  still  vivid  before 
us,  the  sunlight  picked  out  the  figures  of  a  line  of 

1 1561 


"A   DREAM    OF   FAIR   WOMEN" 

women  washing  clothes  in  an  irrigating  ditch,  all 
greatly  interested  in  the  camera.  Coquettishly  the 
younger  ones  posed,  while  their  elders  smiled  and 
went  stolidly  on  with  their  work.  Emboldened  by 
their  chic,  I  asked  the  nearest  one  her  name.  With 
perfect  gravity  she  replied:  "I  am  Sainte  Marie 
of  Aries,  monsieur."  Her  neighbor  giggled  self- 
consciously: "And  I,  Sainte  Marie  of  the  Saintes 
Maries." 

The  engine  shrieked,  and  I  fled  before  the  Mag- 
dalen had  time  to  declare  herself. 


[1571! 


XIV 

THE   HOME   OF   THE   SEVEN   POPES 

PRACTICALLY  all  that  was  left  of  the  Roman 
Avenio  or  Avignon,  after  Barbarian,  Saracen 
and  Frenchman  finished  with  it,  were  small 
articles  that  have  been  gathered  into  a  museum.  So 
;  interest  to-day  centers  around  the  time,  from  1308 
to  1377,  when  Avignon  was  the  residence  of  the 
Popes — seven  of  them  Frenchmen,  and  legitimately 
elected  two  anti-popes. 

Their  palace,  a  most  extraordinary  mixture  of 
fortress,  prison  and  convent,  deserves  its  reputation 
as  one  of  the  show  places  of  France.  It  climbs  up 
the  side  of  a  great  rock  which  falls  sheer  on  the 
south  and  east,  cut  off  completely  from  the  town, 
that  sweeps  around  it  in  a  great  ellipse  which  the 
Rhone  completes  on  the  north.  On  the  west,  the 
palace  walls  rise  in  another  precipice,  pierced  by  a 
narrow  gate.  There  is  no  attempt  at  evenness  in 
the  height  of  the  walls.  The  different  buildings  that 
make  up  the  palace  were  simply  set  where  they 
were  wanted,  without  regard  to  the  level  of  the 
'  ground,  and  this  gives  an  irregularity  and  a  charm 
that  is  very  pleasing. 

[158] 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  SEVEN  POPES 

The  most  impressive  feature  of  the  exterior  is  the 
machicolation  of  the  parapet,  carried  on  tall  Gothic 
arches,  like  the  vaulting  arches  of  a  church.  The 
walls  themselves  rise  perhaps  a  hundred  feet  high  by 
some  seventeen  feet  thick,  and  the  six  towers  that  still 
stand — there  used  to  be  seven  altogether — are  fifty 
feet  higher.  On  the  west,  the  principal  entrance 
was  originally  guarded  by  outworks,  portcullises, 
folding  gates,  and  several  baillies  or  courts.  For 
the  successors  of  St.  Peter,  as  spiritual  world-kings, 
the  Popes  here  were  certainly  well  protected.  You 
enter  their  ancient  domicile  through  the  Court  of 
Honor  to-day,  and  find  it  far  from  inspiring.  Ma- 
sons, sculptors,  carpenters,  guides  and  tourists  min- 
gle on  ground  cumbered  now  with  all  the  impedimenta 
of  restoration.  The  chip,  chip,  chip  of  the  stone- 
cutter's chisel  fills  the  air  ;  powdery  gray  dust  carpets 
the  enclosure ;  and  for  the  courtly  speech  of  the  days 
when  the  palace  was  in  its  prime,  you  hear  American 
slang,  English  monosyllables,  German  and  Proven9al 
and  French. 

From  revolutionary  times  until  some  six  or  seven 
years  ago,  the  spiritual  power  was  replaced  by  arms 
— the  seat  ofi  the  Popes  was  a  barrack.  In  the  small 
section  open  to  inspection  the  mark  of  the  beast 
is  writ  large  upon  frescoed  wall  and  ceiling,  in  win- 
dows stripped  of  their  stained  glass,  in  all  the  traces 
a  conscript  soldiery  leaves  behind.  Whitewash  half 
an  inch  thick  Is  being  carefully  removed  from  the 
walls  of  council  hall  and  bedchamber,  and  paintings 

[159] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

full  of  spirit  and  beauty  are  peeping  out.  In  the 
Pope's  bedroom,  for  instance,  instead  of  the  conven- 
tional religious  compositions,  the  artist  left  a  charm- 
ing little  fishing  scene,  with  a  jester  on  the  bank  ridi- 
culing the  fishermen  and  brandishing  a  landing-net 
for  the  minnow  about  to  be  caught.  Apparently 
fishing  in  the  France  of  those  early  days  was  as 
popular,  and  as  amusing,  as  it  is  to-day.  We  see 
the  low,  vaulted  hall  where  the  College  of  Cardinals 
met  to  elect  one  of  their  own  number  to  the  keys  of 
heaven  and  hell  when  the  old  Pope  died;  the  vast 
kitchen,  with  its  lofty  ceiling,  and  chimney  in  which 
a  whole  ox  might  easily  roast ;  staircases  and  rooms 
and  corridors  seemingly  innumerable. 

He  who  is  fortunate  sees  it  all  under  the  cheery 
guidance  of  ancient  G.  Vassel,  jouglar,  felibre  of  the 
old  Proven9al  school,  and  the  friend  of  Mistral.  Tall, 
smiling,  white-bearded,  the  venerable  poet-guide  winks 
at  you  when  his  quick  ear  catches  some  foolish  or 
ignorant  sally  by  a  visitor,  and  jokes  with  you 
genially  in  the  kitchen — "Ah,  those  Popes!  How 
they  loved  good  cliicken  and  mutton,  roasted  to  a 
turn!  And  their  wines.  .  .  .  They  drank  enough, 
enough!"  And  he  launches,  chuckling  infectiously, 
into  an  enthusiastic  description  and  catalogue  of  the 
papal  cellars.  Perhaps,  too,  if  you  please  him,  when 
you  go  away  he  will  give  you  a  picture  of  himself 
upon  a  postcard,  ask  for  your  fountain-pen,  and 
scribble  a  couplet  beneath  his  likeness,  per  remem- 
brango.     He  is  typically  of  the  South,  of  Provence, 

[i6o] 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  SEVEN  POPES 

a  sunny,  care-free  child  of  Nature,  who  has  "grown 
enough,  but  not  grown  up";  always  ready  to  sing, 
in  the  weak,  musical  dialect  of  his  region,  as  he  did 
when  King  George,  then  Prince  of  Wales,  visited 
the  palace  under  his  care  not  long  since — 

Coiiro  revendres  mai  dins  la  C&uta  Papalo, 
Bello  Autesso  Reiauto,  reveire  lis  ami? 

Vous  faran  soun  salut  li  galoio  cif/alo, 
E  cantaran  per  vous  souH  refrin  favouri. 

The  literary  life  of  Provence  centers  here  in  the 
city  of  the  Popes  to-day.  It  is  the  meeting-place 
of  the  Felibres,  or  Lovers  of  Beauty.  Here  they 
gathered,  to  attempt  the  resurrection  of  their  charm- 
ing speech  as  a  written  language  of  literature,  not 
many  years  ago.  Of  old,  Proven9al  was  the  speech 
of  the  troubadours,  whose  amorous  songs  were  the 
natural  expression  of  the  idealism  which,  from  its 
birth  as  an  outgrowth  of  the  crusades  and  the  ado- 
ration of  the  Virgin,  rapidly  developed  into  a  prime 
feature  of  civilization.  Out  of  the  glamour  that  sur- 
rounded the  deified  Mary  gradually  came  the  worship 
of  all  women,  and  as  a  consequence  knights  and 
nobles,  commoners  and  kings,  sang  the  one  song. 
As  many  as  could  took  their  lutes  and  wandered 
about  seeking  what  lady  they  might  charm,  some- 
times with  fatal,  oftener  with  ludicrous  results. 
Kings  themselves  played  at  being  troubadours — wit- 
ness the  adventures  of  the  Lion  Heart — and  it  was 
only  with  the  Albigensian  crusades  and  the  Inquisi- 
tion's ban  that  Proven9al  died  as  a  polite  speech. 

[i6i] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

Its  revival  some  years  since  by  the  poets  Rou- 
manille,  Mistral,  and  their  followers,  met  with  instant 
approval  throughout  the  province,  and  the  move- 
ment can  be  traced  entirely  to  an  old  woman's  tears. 
The  poet  Jouse  Roumanille  one  day  recited  some  of 
his  French  verses  to  his  aged  mother,  who  had  heard 
that  he  was  "making  paper  talk."  The  old  lady  shook 
her  head  in  sorrowful  ignorance.  "I  do  not  under- 
stand," she  said.  So  Roumanille,  suddenly  fired  with 
the  idea  of  writing  in  the  only  speech  she  knew, 
touched  her  heart  with  some  new  verses  in  Proven9al, 
and  she  wept  and  kissed  him.  Could  a  poet  wish  a 
fairer  omen  of  success,  or  a  movement  start  more 
auspiciously  ? 

The  church  of  Notre  Dame  des  Doms,  a  heavy 
unattractive  Romanesque  structure,  stands  still 
higher  than  the  palace  on  the  Rocher,  and  is  an 
important  example  of  Proven9al  architecture.  The 
distinguishing  features  of  its  porch  are  so  very  clas- 
sic that  for  a  long  time  it  was  thought  to  have 
belonged  to  an  edifice  of  the  Roman  days.  But 
there  is  now  no  doubt  that  its  fluted  Corinthian 
columns  at  either  side,  its  triangular  pediment,  its 
cornices  with  the  familiar  egg-and-leaf  ornamenta- 
tion, were  only  copied  carefully  from  Roman  mod- 
els, as  was  so  often  the  case  at  the  beginning  of  the 
revival  after  the  Dark  Ages. 

The  interior  has  been  restored  out  of  all  sem- 
blance of  the  original,  but  the  lantern  supporting 

th^  dome  at  the  eastern  end  is  raised  in  a  remarkable 

[162  J 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  SEVEN  POPES 

manner  on  a  series  of  overlapping  arches  well  worth 
notice.  The  only  monument  of  any  consequence  in 
the  church  is  the  elaborate  fourteenth  century  Gothic 
tomb  of  Pope  John  XXII,  now  stripped  bare  of  its 
beautiful  statuettes,  six  of  which  ornament  the  pulpit 
of  the  Gothic  church  of  St.  Pierre  in  the  town  behind 
the  palace. 

The  whole  crown  of  the  Rocher,  or  Rock,  is  cov- 
ered with  the  fine  gardens  called  the  Promenade  du 
Rocher  des  Doms,  reaching  to  its  very  edge,  a  preci- 
pice full  three  hundred  feet  above  the  swirling  Rhone. 
The  gardens  are  full  of  flower-beds  and  statues, 
school-children  and  nurses  with  babies,  old  folks  sun- 
ning themselves,  and  travelers  came  for  the  view 
or  to  rest.  And  here,  too,  we  saw  many  of  the  priests 
of  whom  all  Avignon  seemed  full — beautiful,  sweet, 
noble-faced  men,  all  old,  all  ripe  with  hohness  and 
the  genuine  piety  and  sympathy  that  come  only 
to  him  who  helps  his  fellow-man.  Visitors  undoubt- 
edly they  were,  the  flower  of  priesthood  from  the 
ends  of  the  earth,  and  they  made  us  wonder  if  the 
memories  of  the  papal  capital  draw  only  such  of 
the  clergy  on  vacations  as  are  altogether  lovely  and 
lovable  and  good. 

Below  the  parapet,  down  on  the  river's  edge,  the 
people  look  hke  ants,  and  the  vehicles  seem  toys. 
Across  the  Rhone  tower  the  massive  walls  and  battle- 
ments of  Fort  St.  Andre;  nearer,  the  strong  tower 
of  Philippe  le  Bel,  which  guarded  the  farther  end  of 
the  long  bridge  of  St.  Benezet,  built  in  the  latter 

[163] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

part  of  the  twelfth  century.  Three  of  the  project- 
ing, boat-shaped  piers  and  four  arches  of  this  bridge 
still  stand,  and  on  one  of  them  is  the  picturesque 
chapel  of  St.  Nicholas.  According  to  legend,  the 
bridge  was  built  through  the  instrumentality  of  a  lit- 
tle shepherd  lad,  Benezet,  called  from  his  flocks  in 
the  distant  mountains  by  a  mysterious  voice,  which 
led  liim  straight  to  Avignon.  The  mob  jeered  at 
his  mission  and  pretensions,  but  the  good  Bishop, 
almost  convinced  by  his  calm  enthusiasm,  tested  his 
celestial  authority  by  asking  that  he  carry  a  huge 
block  of  stone,  heavy  enough  to  weary  thirty  men, 
to  the  spot  where  the  bridge  was  to  be  built.  Simply 
the  child  took  the  great  stone  in  his  little  arms,  as 
if  he  were  carrying  one  of  his  own  lambs,  followed 
by  the  crowd,  which  turned  its  jeering  into  wild 
acclaim.  And  so,  without  delay,  the  bridge  was 
built;  and  Benezet,  though  he  died  before  he  was 
twenty,  became,  in  the  course  of  time,  a  saint. 

Another  bridge  now  leads  over  to  Villeneuve-Ies- 
Avignon,  which  through  the  centuries  has  declined 
from  the  prosperous  suburb  of  papal  days,  and  the 
later  frontier  fortress,  to  a  mere  straggling,  sleepy 
country  town.  From  the  Place  de  I'Hotel  de  Ville, 
tramcars  weave  throughout  Avignon,  and  omnibus 
lines  still  more  ubiquitous  take  you  anywhere  you 
will.  Wonderful  vehicles  these;  long,  creaking, 
rickety  aff^airs,  like  small,  open  trolley-cars,  with 
frightful  seats  and  c£lnvas  tops — and  pretty  girl 
conductors !    I  am  not  quite  sure  but  that  it  was  the 

[164] 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  SEVEN  POPES 

conductors  that  made  us  feel  Villeneuve  must  be 
worth  seeing.  Before  we  started  I  played  hide-and- 
seek  with  an  especially  pretty  one,  under  the  trees 
in  the  Place,  while  her  'bus  slowly  filled  up.  Dodging 
gravely  about,  she  never  admitted  my  presence,  but 
by  quick  steppings  into  the  shadows,  and  by  swift 
leaps  into  the  'bus,  in  pretended  assistance  of  old 
women  and  children,  the  fair  conductor — and  she 
was  fair — managed  to  escape  and  leave  me  with 
only  a  picture  of  an  elbow  flying  around  the  comer 
of  the  tailboard. 

It  is  a  long  drive  over  that  interminable  bridge, 
which  crosses  a  good-sized  island,  covered  with  scrub 
and  small  trees  and  what  seemed  to  be  well-cared- 
for  meadow.  The  passengers  doze  or  read  news- 
papers, the  glare  of  the  southern  afternoon  falls 
warmly  through  the  lowered  curtains  of  the  exposed 
side  of  the  car,  and  the  white  dust  turns  to  lather 
on  the  sweating  horses'  flanks.  At  the  end  of  the 
bridge  the  'bus  swings  off*  to  the  right,  along  the 
river  bank,  and  the  breeze  comes  fresh  from  King 
Phihp's  tower,  a  golden  honeycomb  against  the  ceru- 
lean sky  and  gray  rock,  where  the  end  of  little 
Benezet's  bridge  used  to  touch  the  shore.  The  road 
ascends,  in  a  long  curve,  past  the  silent  tower,  then 
sinuously  descends  to  Villeneuve,  shapeless,  vaguely 
romantic,  and  sunbaked.  The  'bus  stops  beside  the 
ancient  southern  Gothic  church,  with  its  massive  for- 
tified tower,  but  you  walk  on  up  through  narrow, 
ill-paved  streets,  past  low  houses  whose  doors  open 

[165] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

flush  with  the  gutter  and  let  out  sleepy  dogs  who 
blink  curiously  at  your  heels.  And  then,  at  the 
crest  of  the  hill  where  the  town  ends,  you  see  the 
object  of  your  journey,  the  grim  Fortress  St.  Andre, 
visible  proof  of  the  jealous  fear  with  which  the  kings 
of  France  watched  the  ever-growing  power  of  the 
Popes  across  the  river. 

St.  Andre  is  medievalism  crystallized,  with  its  one 
narrow  entrance,  a  mere  arrow-slit  between  two  tow- 
ers once  toothed  with  a  portcullis.  The  decrepit 
caretaker  dozes  all  day  long  in  his  chair  outside  the 
titanic  towers,  round  and  northern,  where  one  natu- 
rally expects  them  to  be  square  and  southern,  while 
artists  paint  impressionistic  daubs  of  his  heroic 
domicile.  The  fortress  covers  the  whole  top  of  the 
hill;  it  might  be  a  little  walled  city,  so  large  is  it. 
Indeed,  there  are  houses  within  these  grim,  yellow 
walls ;  many  of  them  mere  stone  hovels,  crumbling 
into  dust.  Grass  almost  hides  the  cobbles  of  the 
streets ;  the  fighting-platforms  inside  the  parapet 
sprout  weeds  and  wild  flowers ;  and  the  air  of  the 
entire  ruin  is  ineffably  sad.  In  countless  little  evil 
holes  in  the  black  damp  and  chill  of  the  towers,  holes 
you  are  told  are  dungeons,  where  the  kings,  notably 
Louis  XIV,  used  to  place  forgotten  men,  the  sadness 
takes  visible  form  in  the  crude  carvings  upon  floor 
and  wall.  Human  moles,  working  with  nothing 
sharper  than?  their  spoons,  the  prisoners  toiled  to 
make  here  a  crucifix,  there  a  SL  George  and  dragon, 

a  rude  sketch  of  a  Gothic  church ;  and  in  one  place 

[i66] 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  SEVEN  POPES 

the  pregnant  couplet:  *W  entreprenez  Hen  sans 
envisager  le  -fin.  P.  P.  P.  P." — Undertake  nothing 
whose  end  you  have  not  seen.  Have  patience,  poor 
prisoners. 

But  come  outside  and  shake  off  the  sadness  in  the 
liquid  gold  of  a  perfect  afternoon.  Sit  for  a  while 
under  the  olive-trees,  gazing  over  at  the  city,  fair 
as  a  dream  picture,  built  all  of  gold  and  gems.  From 
an  emerald  setting  it  rises  beyond  the  golden  stream. 
The  cloudless  southern  sky  pours  upon  it  all  the 
glory  of  the  Proven9al  sunshine ;  and  as  you  contem- 
plate it  dreamily  the  city  dwindles  smaller  and 
smaller,  and  the  palace  on  the  Rock  waxes  until  its 
huge  bulk  dwarfs  all  else,  becomes  Avignon  itself, 
domineering  and  extensive. 

Though  Avignon  has  no  Roman  remains  to  show, 
you  will  find  them  not  far  away,  at  the  quiet,  charm- 
ing little  town  of  Orange,  in  the  magnificent  trium- 
phal arch  and  the  great  theater,  which  give  us  an 
instructive  picture  of  the  days  of  the  Empire;  and 
also  at  St.  Remy,  in  Caesar's  arch  to  commemorate 
his  triumph  over  Vercingetorix,  and  in  the  towering 
pile  to  Marius,  whose  memory  would  have  been  safe 
without  it.  Who  could  forget  the  Campi  Putridi.'' 
And^at  St.  Remy,  besides  monuments,  you  find  beauty 
and  spirit — women  who  rival  the  fair  daughters  of 
Aries. 

Avignon  is  fragrant  with  memories  of  Petrarch 
and  Laura,  and  they  should  be  followed  on  out  into 
the  smiling  country,  through  L'lle-sur-Sorgue,  full 

[167] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

of  the  purring  music  of  water-wheels,  and  on  to 
Vaucluse,  where*  the  Closed  Vale  of  the  Romans  ends 
in  a  towering  cliff.  Petj-arch's  garden  w-as  here  by 
the  stream  that  gushes  forth-  from  the  stone,  and 
here  he  first  saw  Laura  the  lo.vely,  f dir  whom  he  sighed 
all  his  hfe.  His  love  gave,  us  imperishable  sonnets : 
they  give  us  the  picture  of  a  weakling,  instead  of  a 
man  able  to  override  all  obstacles  in  his  path  and  win 
the  one  woman,  whatever  the  cost  or  consequences. 

At  Tarascon,  hapless  King  Rene  made  him  a  fairy 
castle  on  the  bank,  above  the  gleaming  Rhone.  Alas ! 
it  is  a  prison  now,  and  none  enter  save  those  who 
do  not  return  to  any  hotel  in  time  for  luncheon. 
But  from  the  guard-walls  outside  you  may  look  across 
to  the  heights  on  the  other  bank,  where  the  romance 
of  Aucassin  and  Nicolette  has  made  the  ruined  castle 
of  Beaucaire  forever  famous.  No  one  who  has  loved 
has  any  excuse  for  not  knowing  Aucassin,  who,  un- 
like the  timid  Petrarch,  swore  that  he  preferred  hell 
with  his  sweet  Nicolette  and  all  the  goodly  lords 
and  ladies  of  his  father's  train,  to  heaven  with  the 
aged  monks  and  priests  and  poor,  who  knew  naught 
of  honest  worldly  joys.  But  neither  Rene  nor 
Aucassin  drew  us  to  Tarascon. 

We  went  to  hunt  a  tarasque,   and  to  call  upon 

Mister  Tartarin.    Long  and  hard  we  hunted  through 

the  uninteresting  little  town,   and  at  last  ran  our 

monster  to  earth  in  a  stable — a  black  canvas  brute, 

with  a  bristly  wig  on  his  nodding  head,  and  great 

[i68] 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  SEVEN  POPES 

goggle  eyes,  and  too  many  sharp  teeth.  Red  and 
white  and  green  stripes  bar  him  like  a  tiger,  and  he 
has  the  shape  of  a  mouse — ten  feet  long.  It  is  not 
hard  to  understand  why  the  bold  man-eater  kept 
Tarascon  in  terror  of  its  life  until  gentle  Ste. 
Marthe,  coming  up  from  Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la- 
Mer,  hunted  and  put  a  quietus  on  him  forever  with 
the  sign  of  the  cross. 

We  failed  to  see  Mister  Tartarin.  Though  I  made 
diligent  inquiries,  no  one  seemed  to  know  him,  and 
it  was  not  until  a  few  minutes  before  our  train  left 
that  a  gentleman  told  me  the  mighty  hunter's  villa 
was  about  a  mile  outside  of  town.  Then,  alas!  it 
was  too  late. 


[169] 


XV 

THE      LIVING      AND       THE      DEAD 

AS  you  step  from  the  railroad  station  upon 
the  broad,  clean  Avenue  Feucheres,  Nimes 
turns  brightly  toward  you  a  sun-kissed 
southern  visage  of  ancient  splendor  and  present  pros- 
perity :  wide  streets  full  of  trees ;  formal  gardens 
with  sweet-smelling  shrubs ;  promenades  of  the  most 
lavish  sort;  bits  of  Roman  architecture  as  precious 
and  beautiful  as  rare  scarabaei ;  wooded  heights 
spangled  with  flowers  and  bristling  with  odoriferous 
firs.  The  city  is  so  perfumed,  with  a  subtle,  elusive, 
fragrant  freshness,  you  open  your  nostrils  to  it  in 
sheer  eagerness  of  life.  You  breathe  in  the  essence 
of  the  German  poet's  line,  ^'Weisst  du  das  Land  wo 
die  Citronen  bluehn?^'  Very  different  it  is  from  the 
heavy,  cloying  sweetness  of  tuberose  and  jasmine, 
and  perfumes  in  the  making,  as  at  Grasse. 

What  a  race  of  Titans  they  must  have  been,  those 
Romans,  who  built  in  defiance  of  time  and  man  alike ! 
The  Amphitheater  here  is  not  so  large  as  that  at 
Aries,  but  its  exterior  is  in  better  condition,  and 
presents  a  very  imposing  appearance.  Here,  for 
once,  the  Roman  genius  went  wrong  in  designing  the 

[170] 


THE   LIVING   AND   THE    DEAD 

great  corridor  whose  square-headed  arches  support 
the  second  story.  Cracked  like  glass  and  crumbling 
like  putty  under  the  tremendous  weight  imposed 
upon  them,  the  massive  stone  lintels  of  the  arches 
have  had  to  be  reinforced  by  iron  bars  thrust  through 
and  up  and  down,  until  the  great  fabric  looks  as 
though  sewed  roughly  together  with  these  stout  metal 
bastings.  The  arrangement  of  the  seats  is  interest- 
ing: the  lowest  series  for  dignitaries,  the  next  for 
the  knights,  the  third  for  plain  citizens,  and  the 
upper  rows  for  the  slaves,  quarrelsome  creatures, 
whose  seats  had  to  be  marked  off  by  a  deep  groove 
chiseled  in  the  stone  on  either  hand.  The  podium, 
or  barrier  between  the  lowest  seats  and  the  arena, 
is  so  low  that  it  has  given  rise  to  a  good  deal  of 
speculation  about  the  sort  of  fights  given.  Surely 
no  wild-animal  combats  could  have  been  safe  unless 
a  metal  netting  was  stretched  above  the  podium.  It 
seems  more  Hkely  that  most  of  the  sports  must  have 
been  naval  battles,  gladiatorial  contests,  chariot 
races,  and  other  amusements  not  likely  to  injure  the 
onlookers. 

Those  stirring  scenes  of  old  are  commemorated 
to-day  by  presentations  of  spectacular  dramas,  the 
annual  branding  of  the  lively  little  bulls  of  the 
nearby  Camargue,  and  by  bull-fights,  which  for 
sheer  brutality  might  well  make  the  ghosts  of  the 
emperors  rattle  their  bones  in  envy.  Were  the  Ro- 
mans, who  built  this  house  that  they  might  sit  in 
it  and  watch  Life  and  Death  play  tag,  prophets  .f^ 

[171] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

Could  they,  nearly  a  score  of  centuries  ago,  have 
foreseen  the  sordid,  flashing  pageantry  of  the  pres- 
ent-day courses  aux  taureaux?  Scarcely ;  yet  over 
the  imperial  entrance  two  great  bulls'  heads,  gazing 
out  over  the  city  with  mild  eyes,  bespeak  the  character 
of  the  arena  to-day.  Why  were  they  put  there — to 
flatter  Divus  Augustus,  born  in  a  house  that  had 
bulls  sculptured  upon  it?  None  knows,  yet  they  link 
the  present  with  the  past  as  graphically  as  though 
the  ancients  had  known  what  the  moderns  would  be. 
Nimes  is  rich  indeed  in  these  monuments  of  an- 
I  tiquity;  more  so,  perhaps,  than  any  other  spot  in 
France.  Of  them  all,  the  most  distinguished  and 
lovely,  indeed  the  most  beautiful  and  perfect  speci- 
men of  Roman  architecture  north  of  Italy,  is  the 
Maison  Carree.  Yes,  the  French  language,  which 
we  are  told  is  so  exquisitely  refined  in  its  denomina- 
tion of  anything  and  everything,  can  find  nothing 
better  to  call  this  little  gem  of  a  temple,  dedicated 
to  the  "Princes  of  Youth,"  than  the  Maison  Carree, 
the  Square  House!  More  a  splendid  chapel  than 
a  temple,  the  little  edifice  is  an  oblong,  measuring 
about  forty  by  eighty  feet,  of  the  pseudo-peripteral 
type,  with  ten  slim  Corinthian  columns  enclosing  the 
deep  porch,  and  twenty  others  engaged  in  the  side 
and  rear  walls.  The  gabled  roof  surmounts  an  en- 
tablature and  a  pediment  so  profusely  decorated  that 
the  effect  is,  if  anything,  too  rich;  yet  the  details 
of  style,   to  be  sure  indelibly   stamped  with  Greek 

genius,  are  remarkably  pure.     It  is  hard  not  to  wax 

[  172  ] 


THE    LIVING   AND   THE    DEAD 

over  enthusiastic  about  it,  especially  when  you  see  or 
think  of  the  vast  ugliness  of  the  modern  theater  right 
across  the  Place.  Compared  with  this  gloomy  coun- 
terfeit of  Greek  dignity,  the  "Square  House"  fairly 
scintillates.  In  Roman  days,  rows  of  columns  ex- 
tended to  right  and  left  from  the  temple — this  was 
evidently  the  end  of  the  Forum — enclosing  shops  and 
public  places  of  business  or  resort.  On  the  facade 
is  a  series  of  holes  for  the  bolts  with  which  the 
original  inscription,  in  bronze  letters,  was  held  fast. 
Many  ingenious  attempts  have  been  made  to  decipher 
the  inscription  by  reading  the  holes,  but  the  authori- 
ties differ  so  widely  that  you  may  puzzle  out  a  new 
one  for  yourself  and  be  quite  as  nearly  right,  per- 
haps, as  the  savants.  The  reading  most  generally 
approved  is  that  which  dedicates  the  structure  to 
the  Princes  Cassius  and  Lucius,  the  two  fortunate 
boys  adopted  by  Emperor  Augustus  as  his  heirs. 

The  history  of  the  temple  is  quite  as  full  of  ro- 
mance as  the  building  itself  is  of  beauty:  we  find 
it  a  temple,  a  church,  a  stable — then  the  flutings  of 
the  central  columns  of  the  porch  were  shaven  away 
to  give  entrance  to  carts  and  other  vehicles — an 
Augustinian  mausoleum.  When  the  Revolution  waved 
its  red  flag  at  all  religious  institutions,  the  dread 
tribunal  of  blood  met  in  it.  Its  picturesque  career 
closed  with  its  adoption  by  the  State  as  a  moniimient 
historique,  and  a  museum  for  relics  of  the  past.  On 
either  side  of  the  door  is  a  great  amphora,  one  of 
the  pair  bearing  an  inscription  informing  the  curi- 

[173  J 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 


ous  that  this  particular  vase  was  found  in  1823,  on 
the  estate  of  a  M.  Laurent,  at  Saussine,  and  that  it 
was  just  this  sort  of  a  "tub"  that  Diogenes  lived 
in,  in  the  happy  days  of  old. 

Two  of  the  Roman  city's  gateways  still  remain, 
one  of  them  the  Gate  of  Augustus,  built  in  16  B.C., 
as  a  double  main  arch  for  vehicles,  flanked  by  a  little 
postern  on  either  hand  for  pedestrians.  A  tiny 
tower  at  each  side  contains  the  stairs  leading  to 
the  gallery  at  the  top  of  the  arch,  and  served  as 
a  lookout  and  signal  station.  To-day,  fenced  in  an 
angle  between  the  blank  walls  of  modern  tenements, 
the  noble  gateway  makes  a  curious  impression  of 
detachment  and  aloofness  from  both  its  ancient  and 
present  surroundings. 

One  of  the  loveliest  walks  in  any  French  city 
to-day  is  in  Nimes,  along  the  Quai  de  la  Fontaine, 
with  its  little  canal  to  Fountain  Park.  Ten  or  fif- 
teen feet  below  the  level  of  the  quai  runs  the  clear 
green  stream,  mirroring  back  long,  quivering,  silky 
vistas  of  the  proud  old  trees  that  line  the  banks 
above,  arching  their  necks  and  whispering  to  the 
scented  breeze  that  the  heavy,  inartistic  houses  flank- 
ing them  are  modern  excrescences,  not  without  some 
dignity,  but  certainly  creatures  of  no  character. 
Crossing  streets  make  the  eff'ect  of  the  stream  that 
of  a  series  of  very  long  and  deep  but  narrow  tanks 
or  basins,  full  of  glorious  reflections. 

The  elaborate  Garden  of  the  Fountain  is  laid  out  in 
the  Louis  XV  style,  with  broad  lawns,  prim  borders 

[1741 


THE   LIVING   AND   THE   DEAD 

of  glossy  oranges  full  of  green  and  gold,  and  bright- 
eyed  flower-beds.  Nurses  idle  on  the  shaded  benches 
while  their  small  charges  disport  themselves  on  the 
clean  gravel  paths  or  the  inviting  lawns..  And  at  the 
back  edge  of  the  park,  close  to  the  steep  Mont 
Cavalier,  a  splendid  spring  gushes  forth,  to  fill  the 
ancient  Roman  baths,  rich  in  urns  and  cupids,  stucco 
balustrades  and  quaint  bridges,  and  all  that  florid 
eighteenth  century  taste  could  suggest  to  add  to  the 
already  lovely  scene.  By  all  means  accept  the  serv- 
ices of  one  of  the  old  custodians  always  hovering 
about,  and  let  him  tell  in  his  own  droll  way  the  story 
of  the  baths  of  eld  and  of  King  Louis  XV's  gay  court 
ladies  and  their  amusements  here.  You  will  learn 
history  as  It  was  never  told  In  any  schoolbook  on 
either  side  of  the  water,  but  it  will  be  none  the  less 
fascinating  for  all  Its  novelty. 

To  one  side  is  a  tiny  ruined  Temple  of  Diana, 
built  by  the  Romans  on  the  site  of  a  temple  of 
the  Celts  to  their  fountain  god  Nemausus.  Behind 
the  baths,  balsamy  alleys  wind  up  the  slope  among 
the  trees,  where  everything  Is  as  natural  and  In- 
formal as  the  gardens  below  are  precise.  Rising 
alone  from  the  trees  on  the  crest  is  the  Tour  de 
Magne — Splendid  Tower — a  huge,  hollow  monument 
about  a  hundred  feet  high.  It  Is  the  oldest  building! 
In  Nimes,  erected  by  the  citizens  to  the  glory  of\ 
Augustus.  The  view  from  the  top  is  worth  the 
climb — the  whole  city  spread  on  the  uneven  plain, 
with  broad  avenues  shooting  straight  out  like  the 

[175] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

spokes  of  a  wheel,  the  plain  itself  a  moving  sea  of 
color,  and  away  on  the  horizon  faint  fringes  of  moun- 
tain peaks.  The  Nimois  seem  to  have  been  content 
to  rest  upon  the  glory  of  their  Roman  remains,  for 
here  is  no  such  Christian  architecture  as  at  Aries. 

A  few  miles  away,  across  the  valley  of  the  Gardon, 
strides  one  of  the  Romans'  grandest  works,  a  mighty 
aqueduct,  a  hundred  and  sixty  feet  high,  as  perfect 
pictorially  as  it  is  scientifically.  It  gives  you  a  com- 
plete sense  of  the  undeviating  force  and  skill  of  the 
engineers  who  could  produce  at  one  stroke  something 
so  beautiful  by  making  it  so  supremely  perfect  as 
a  thing  for  use:  hewn  stones,  uncemented,  but  cling- 
ing together,  arch  upon  arch,  three  tiers  high,  the 
topmost  row  hollowed  out  for  the  passage  of  the 
water. 

The  City  of  Dead- Waters — ^what  a  name ! 

Southward  from  Nimes,  among  the  dead  waters 
of  the  sickly  lagoons  that  gave  it  its  name  of  Aigues- 
Mortes,  rises  one  of  the  most  wonderful  pieces  of 
military  architecture  in  the  world.  The  town  was 
founded  by  St.  Louis  at  a  time  when  he  was  fired 
with  holy  zeal;  and  thence  he  set  out  upon  his  un- 
fortunate crusades  of  1248  and  1270.  But  why 
should  a  king  make  a  city  because  he  wished  to  sail 
away.*^  and  why  should  he  choose  so  mean  a  spot  if 
he  must  build?  Because  at  that  time  almost  the 
whole  of  the  southern  coast  was  controlled  by  the 
powerful  Counts  of  Provence  and  Beziers,  and  one 

[1/6] 


THE    LIVING   AND   THE    DEAD 

who  was  only  King  of  France  had  to  take  what  he 
could  get. 

So  flat  is  the  country  as  Aigues-Mortes  is  ap- 
proached that  there  is  no  thrill  to  it  until,  leaving 
the  station,  you  walk  in  the  blinding  light  of  the 
salty,  sandy  plain,  among  the  straggling  white  houses 
and  little  vineyards,  to  the  town.  A  stone  bridge 
humps  its  back  to  leap  across  the  Beaucaire  Canal, 
and  from  its  arch  you  look  down  upon  the  slow- 
flowing  waters  to  and  past  the  spot  whence  St.  Louis 
embarked  upon  his  crusades.  The  walls,  built  by  his 
son,  Philip  III,  rise  from  twenty-five  to  more  than 
thirty  feet  in  height,  and  make  the  town  a  rectan- 
gular fortress,  some  six  hundred  yards  one  way  by 
a  hundred  and  fifty  the  other.  They  are  guarded  by 
no  less  than  twenty  towers,  some  of  them  square,  some 
round,  and  ten  great  gates,  named  after  their  various 
uses  or  from  events  that  transpired  in  or  about  them. 

Of  them  all,  the  Tower  of  Constance  is  the  most 
effective,  because  it  stands  clear  away  from  the  walls, 
simply  a  smooth,  round  shell  of  masonry,  pierced 
by  unusually  long  arrow-slits,  and  crowned  at  one 
side  with  a  slender  little  shaft,  upon  which  is  still  the 
iron  cage  within  which,  in  St.  Louis'  time,  a  beacon- 
fire  used  to  guide  ships  entering  or  leaving  the 
port.  The  priceless  little  French-English  guidebook 
I  afterward  acquired,  in  its  English  half  declares  that 
the  city  was  built  "as  a  stronghold  in  the  periods  of 
scufling  with  the  Saracens  pirats  landing  from  Spain 
or  the  Mediterranean  border." 

[i77l 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

According  to  many  writers,  past  and  present,  the 
miasma  of  fever  stalks  in  by  door  and  window  as 
soon  as  the  sun  is  down.  Very  hkely — ^but  people  still 
are  born  and  married  and  happy  in  the  little  city 
by  the  etangs;  and  so  far  as  I  could  see  they  looked 
very  like  any  other  people,  neither  sicklier  nor 
healthier. 

From  the  flatness  of  the  surrounding  country, 
Aigues-Mortes  could  never  have  had  the  glorious 
effect  of  Carcassonne,  and  the  filling  up  of  the  moat 
has  robbed  the  grim  walls  of  what  maj  esty  they  once 
had  in  the  days  when  they  rose,  alive  and  strong,  from 
the  dead  waters.  But  looked  down  upon  from  the 
Tower  of  Constance,  or  from  any  one  of  the  corner 
turrets  of  the  walls  themselves,  only  the  presence  of 
men  in  coats  of  mail,  and  surtouts  with  white  crosses, 
is  needed  to  make  the  picture  true  to  the  thirteenth 
century.  The  ancient  houses  are,  some  of  them, 
still  there;  others  of  the  same  type  have  been  built; 
the  streets  and  squares  all  show  the  military-minded 
architect;  and  the  long  walk  about  the  haughty  bat- 
tlements is  a  revelation  of  the  very  difficulties  the 
crusading  Saint  himself  had  to  face  in  the  Holy  Land, 
where  he  died. 


[178] 


XVI 

THROUGH   LANGUEDOC 

WESTWARD  from  Nimes  we  have  an  unin- 
terrupted series  of  exquisite  vistas  from 
the  time  we  cross  the  blue  waters  of  the 
Etang  d'Ingril  and  come  to  Cette — the  Mediter- 
ranean on  one  side,  another  blue  lagoon  on  the  other, 
great,  snowy  piles  of  salt  dotting  the  shore  like  the 
tents  of  an  invading  army.  The  harbor,  and  the 
end  of  the  Canal  du  Midi,  connecting  Mediterranean 
and  Atlantic,  flutter  with  the  flags  of  the  world. 
Comes  a  long,  shining  beach  between  sea  and  lake, 
and  then  Agde,  its  somber,  frowning  cathedral  hav- 
ing all  the  seeming  of  a  feudal  castle. 

A  few  miles  more,  and  the  locomotive  drags  us 
into  JJeziers,  rumbling  over  the  echoing  railway  via- 
duct, pa^tTlie  ancient,  unequally  arched  bridge  that 
humps  its  back  as  it  leaps  across  the  river  Orb.  It 
is  a  town  full  of  color,  from  the  brown,  fortified 
pile  of  St.  Nazaire's  Cathedral,  reared  on  strong- 
arched  terraces  at  the  edge  of  the  almost  perpen- 
dicular rocks,  up  which  climb  sure-footed  houses,  to 
the  bright  gardens  and  umbrageous  promenade, 
named  for  Paul  Riquet,  who  was  born  in  Beziers. 

[179] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

At  his  own  expense,  this  far-sighted  and  public- 
i  spirited  citizen  built  the  three-million-dollar  Canal  du 
Midi  to  link  Atlantic  and  Mediterranean,  and  benefit 
not  merely  his  native  city,  but  the  whole  Midi  region 
of  France. 

Do  not  miss  reading  Martin's*  graphic  descrip- 
tion of  the  massacre  of  the  Protestants  of  Beziers, 
July  22,  1209,  during  the  Albigensian  wars.  It  is 
very  easy  French.  A  line  or  two  will  give  you  an 
idea:  "In  a  few  moments  the  city  was  inundated 
by  thousands  of  furious  enemies.  Then  there  fol- 
lowed the  greatest  massacre  the  world  has  ever  seen ; 
they  spared  neither  age  nor  youth,  not  even  the 
suckling  babe.  Before  the  massacre  began  the  con- 
querors had  asked  the  Abbe  of  Citeaux  how  they 
should  distinguish  between  the  faithful  and  the  here- 
tic. *Kill  them  all!'  replied  Arnaud  Amauri.  'Kill 
them  all !  God  will  know  His  own !'  Arnaud  Amauri 
avowed  that  twenty  thousand  (had  been  killed)  in  the 
account  he  rendered  to  the  Pope  of  his  victory.  Such 
was  the  debut  of  the  champions  of  the  faith." 

At  Narbonne  is  another  fortified  cathedral  and 
bishop's  palace — but  Carcassonne  waits  just  down 
the  line.  As  you  come  puffing  along  through  lovely 
rolling  country,  Carcassonne  suddenly  jumps  at  you 
around  the  corner  of  a  low  green  hill,  with  the  sun 
gleaming  torridly  upon  its  slate  roofs  and  shining 
on  the  cool  stretch  of  greensward  between  its  inner 
and  outer  walls.     It  looks   as  much  the  fairy  city 

*Histoire  de  France,  par  Henri  Martin,  vol.  IV :  P.  32, 

[i8o] 


THROUGH    LANGUEDOC 


of  your  dreams  as  a  fact  can  ever  resemble  a  fancy. 
For  twenty  years  I  had  dreamed  of  this  mystical 
city  of  the  south,  this  spired,  turreted,  bastioned 
fortress,  whose  every  aspect,  in  pictures  and  descrip- 
tion alike,  fired  my  imagination  with  everything 
chivalry  and  medievalism  suggest.  And  now,  with 
the  goal  of  years  under  my  foot,  it  so  transpired 
that  to  sit  down  in  Carcassonne  as  I  wished  and 
study  it  at  leisure  for  weeks,  to  come  to  know  its 
people  and  the  very  stones  of  its  frowning  walls, 
was  impossible.  A  few  days  at  most  for  the  realiza- 
tion of  old  desire.^  No!  The  train  stopped  half  an 
hour ;  so  would  I ;  and  the  plan  of  years  could  wait 
for  decent  fulfilment. 

I  hope  I  shall  not  be  like  Nadaud's  old  peasant, 
who,  at  sixty,  started  to  realize  his  lifelong  dream 
of  the  castle  walls  "as  grand  as  those  of  Babylon." 

"But   (Heaven  forgive  him)   half  way  on, 
The  old  man  died  upon  the  road; 
He  never  gazed  on  Carcassonne." 

Even  before  the  advent  of  the  Romans,  Toulouse 
was  a  city  of  importance,  and  it  continued  to  be 
so  under  succeeding  nations.  In  the  latter  part  of 
the  eighth  century,  indeed,  its  hereditary  counts  be- 
came so  powerful  that  they  almost  succeeded  in 
making  themselves  independent  of  their  titular  sov- 
ereign, the  King  of  France.  Under  the  rule  of 
these  counts,  Languedoc  enjoyed  great  prosperity 

and  a  remarkable  degree  of  freedom  in  life  and  Ian-* 

[i8i] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 


guage.  This  very  enlightenment  drew  do^\Ti  upon 
them  the  wrath  of  the  Church,  and  a  new  "crusade" 
was  gaily  entered  upon  by  the  Catholic  North  to 
exterminate  these  rebellious  southern  heretics.  Be- 
sides having  the  charm  of  novelty,  the  Albigensian 
war  promised  plenty  of  loot  close  at  hand,  and  under 
the  leadership  of  Count  Simon  de  Montfort,  a  dia- 
bolical butcher  in  the  disguise  of  humanity,  the 
"crusaders"  turned  the  fair  land  of  Languedoc  into 
desolation,  and  called  it  Peace. 

Toulouse  to-day  is  the  epitome  of  what  a  very 
large  commercial  community,  unhindered  by  restric- 
tions of  space,  can  do  in  making  its  domicile  at- 
tractive and  easy  to  get  about  in.  It  covers  an 
enormous  area  on  both  sides  of  the  Garonne,  full 
of  broad,  fine  streets — the  rue  Alsace-Lorraine  would 
do  credit  to  Paris,  of  which  it  i-s  typical — avenues 
lined  with  trees,  big  and  little  parks,  open  squares, 
ugly  houses  of  the  modern  French  school,  and  a 
few  ancient  civic  and  religious  edifices  of  both  im- 
portance and  interest.  The  people  are  of  an  ordinary 
commercial  type,  the  women  plump,  the  girls  very 
pretty  and  well  dressed,  and  all  highly  perfumed. 

The  Capitole,  or  Hotel  de  Ville,  stands  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  city,  a  huge,  hideous,  pretentious  affair, 
of  little  architectural  merit,  facing  the  barren  vast- 
ness  of  the  Place  de  Capitole,  w^here  the  market  is 
held.  There  is,  however,  an  immediate  antidote  to 
this   dreary   commonplace   in   the  lovely   little  park 

laid  out  right  behind.      It  isn't  very  much  bigger 

[182] 


THROUGH    LANGUEDOC 


than  the  palm  of  your  hand,  but  is  crowded  with 
trees,  and  flower-beds  full  of  color,  and  is  the  pictur- 
esque setting  for  a  delightful  fifteenth  century  square 
donjon  keep,  restored,  to  be  sure,  by  the  omnipresent 
Viollet-le-Duc,  but  so  striking  and  beautiful,  with 
its  dull-red  brick  walls  and  slate  roofs,  that  glisten 
as  though  they  had  been  newly  treated  with  stove 
polish,  that  3'ou  think  of  the  illustrations  of  the  fairy 
tales  you  read  long  before  you  were  old  enough 
to  visit  Toulouse. 

Down  the  dark  and  narrow  Street-of-the-Bull  we 
come  to  the  dull-red  church  of  the  Saint-Bull,  a 
curious  fourteenth  century  edifice,  with  triangular 
arches  in  its  facade,  and  a  belfry  not  only  typically 
Tolosan,  but  which  exercised  a  powerful  influence  in 
molding  the  style  of  belfries  on  churches  throughout 
the  province.  The  church  stands,  according  to  leg- 
end, on  the  spot  where  the  bull  to  which  the  Romans 
tied  St.  Sernin,  after  he  had  refused  to  sacrifice  the 
beast  to  Jupiter,  stopped  in  his  wild  career.  That 
incident  is  commemorated  inside  by  a  series  of  strik- 
ing modern  frescoes  that  look  like  mosaics  and  give 
the  story  with  a  wealth  of  color  and  detail. 

At  the  end  of  the  same  street,  in  a  vast  open  square, 
the  saint  is  better  memorialized  by  the  magnificent 
church  bearing  his  name,  St.  Sernin,  at  oncie  the 
pride  of  Toulouse  and  one  of  the  most  splendid 
Romanesque  churches  an^^where  in  the  world.  It 
is  built,  as  was  fitting,  of  the  "material  of  the  dis- 
trict," plain  red  brick,  as  are  most  other  great  Tolo- 

[183] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

san  structures  of  any  age;  for  the  city,  lying  in  a 
dusty  plain,  had  no  convenient  quarries,  and  so,  tak- 
ing the  clay  near  at  hand,  wrought  with  it  in  perfect 
and  beautiful  works,  fully  as  enduring  as  those  fash- 
ioned of  the  less  harshly  toned  stone  or  marble  of 
other  cities. 

It  is  very  seldom  that  one  sees  an  effect  so  entirely 
pleasing  and  unlabored  as  that  produced  by  the  group 
of  the  five  round-topped  chapels  of  the  eastern  end, 
which  fairly  flow  upward  toward  the  spire  over  the 
crossing.  Five  seems  to  be  the  significant  number 
of  St.  Semin — five  aisles  inside,  five  chapels  at  their 
ends,  five  stories  to  the  spire,  gradually  decreasing 
in  dimensions  as  they  mount.  The  two  little  chapels 
attached  to  the  east  side  of  each  transept,  so  far 
from  spoiling  the  symmetry  of  the  design,  rather 
Increase  It,  and  the  whole  group  Is  curiously  Oriental 
In  appearance.  The  opposite,  or  western,  end,  a  huge, 
rough,  unfinished  pile,  with  lofty  buttresses  and  a 
twin  portal  and  rose  window,  serves  merely  to  bring 
Into  stronger  relief  the  rest  of  the  edifice.  Before 
the  door  on  the  south  side  of  the  nave  rises  a  beauti- 
ful and  elaborate  Renaissance  arch.  Wholly  at 
variance  with  the  style  of  the  church  as  this  arch  Is, 
it  was  so  skilfully  conceived  as  to  do  no  violence  to 
the  harmonious  whole. 

Inside,  St.  Sernin  Is  a  true  Latin  cross,  unusually 
large  for  a  Romanesque  church — 330  feet  long  by 
104  feet  wide,  with  the  transepts  210  feet  from  end 
to  end.     The  columns  are  crowned  by  capitals  won^ 

[184] 


THROUGH    LANGUEDOC 


derfully  varied  and  rich,  foliage  and  figures  ming- 
ling in  harmonious  and  lifelike  profusion.  Behind 
the  chancel,  on  the  walls,  strange  carven  reliefs,  some 
pagan,  some  Christian,  form  a  curious  fringe  of 
gray.  The  feature  that  most  interests  the  greater 
number  of  visitors  is  not  here,  however,  but  on  a  seat 
among  the  choir-stalls.  Turn  up  the  miserere,  and 
look  closely,  in  the  flicker  of  the  taper  the  verger 
holds  toward  the  ancient  oak.  Out  of  the  shadows 
slowly  emerges  the  form  of  a — pig,  leaning  from  a 
pulpit!  And  lest  none  but  the  elect  see  the  point 
of  the  satire,  he  is  labeled  plainly :  Calvin  el  pore. 

One  of  the  pleasantest  memories  you  take  away 
from  St.  Sernin  is  that  of  its  bells.  Every  hour 
they  play  through  the  tuneful  "Ave  Maria  de 
Lourdes" ;  and  every  fifteen  minutes  parts  of  the 
same  air  drift  out  over  the  city  in  a  silvery,  soothing 
recurrence  from  their  melodious  throats. 

Of  all  the  cathedrals  of  France,  ancient  or  mod- 
ern, I  did  not  find  one  equal  to  St.  Etienne  de  Tou- 
louse for  hizarrerie.  It  is  really  two  short,  wide 
churches  telescoped  into  one  another,  but  not  quite 
on  the  same  axis.  Flat-roofed  behind,  half -gabled  in 
front,  with  a  fortress-like  tower  shooting  up  beside 
the  fa9ade,  the  Cathedral  makes  you  rub  your  eyes 
and  wonder  if  you  are  awake.  The  fine  rose  window 
was  left  in  its  piace  during  the  fifteenth  century  re- 
construction, but  a  new  door  was  cut,  neither  in  the 
middle  nor  clear  to  the  side,  but  just  enough  out 
of  center  to  give  a  queer  twist  to  the  whole.     Inside, 

1 185] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

you  see  the  same  effect.  At  the  end  of  a  short,  wide 
nave,  an  immensely  thick,  tall  pillar,  to  the  right  of 
which  is  a  narrow  aisle,  and  to  the  left  the  really 
handsome  choir,  which  projects  on  that  side  like  a 
transept.  It  has  to  be  seen  to  be  appreciated.  It 
seems  that  a  new  choir  was  commenced,  on  a  different 
axis,  with  the  intention  of  tearing  down  the  old  nave 
and  building  a  new  one  on  the  new  axis.  But  it  was 
never  done,  and,  in  all  probability,  never  will  be 
now.  It  would  be  a  shame  to  destroy  such  a  unique 
monument  as  this! 

Toulouse  has  its  share  of  other  churches,  one 
of  which,  the  ruined  conventual  church  of  the  Jaco- 
bins, has  a  fine  octagonal  tower  of  red  brick.  The 
church  itself  has  been  used  as  a  military  barrack. 
Happier  far  the  fate  of  that  old  Augustinian  con- 
vent behind  whose  high  walls  is  the  Fine  Arts  Museum, 
a  provincial  collection  really  worth  a  careful  inspec- 
tion. When  we  first  tried  to  enter,  one  gloomy 
morning,  we  found  an  old  peasant  woman  sitting  on 
the  steps,  unmindful  of  the  mist  that  was  fast  turn- 
ing to  rain.  ^'Pardon,  Madame"  I  said,  "is  the  Musee 
open  to-day  .f^" 

"Sir,"  she  answered  dejectedly,  "I  do  not  know. 
I  am  not  of  Toulouse,  thank  God!"  And  with  a 
glance  at  the  lowering  sky,  she  huddled  together 
again,  the  picture  of  dumb  woe,  marooned  in  an 
unfriendly  city. 

The  two  cloisters  of  the  former  convent,  of  the 
fourteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  are  the  acme  of 

[i86] 


THROUGH    LANGUEDOC 


cloistral  perfection.  And  the  gargoyles — Mon  Dieu! 
Taken  from  their  old  lofty  perches,  they  stand  erect, 
a  long,  grinning  row,  down  the  middle  of  one  of  the 
cloister  arcades,  gaping,  laughing,  sneering,  snarling 
at  you!  All  you  can  do  is  to  goggle  back  in  sheer 
amazement  if  you  are  an  American,  or  say  fervently, 
"Mon  Dieur'  if  you  are  French. 

Toulouse  has  plenty  of  fine  mansions  of  the  days 
when  a  man's  house  was  his  pride  as  well  as  his 
castle.  But  its  greatest  charms  are  the  swirling 
Garonne,  with  its  bridges,  its  wing  dam  and  pictur- 
esque old  mills — one  of  them  dates  clear  back  to  the 
ninth  century — and  the  three  splendid  canals,  which 
focus  in  one  grand  basin  called  the  Embouchure. 
Lines  of  trees  bar  their  placid  waters  with  long,  quiv- 
ering reflections ;  canal-boats  surge  heavily  along 
at  two  miles  an  hour,  towed  by  splendid  horses,  who 
do  their  work  like  machines ;  fishermen,  women  and 
boys  line  bank  and  bridges  with  a  patience  that  is 
farcical,  or  pitiful ;  and  trolley-cars  empty  crowds  of 
gay  amusement-seekers  under  the  trees  at  the  great 
stone  basin  where  the  boats  tie  up.  It  is  here  that 
the  Canal  du  Midi  starts  on  its  long  journey  to  the 
Mediterranean.  After  it  was  built,  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  it  was  found  that  the  upper  part  of  the 
Garonne  was  very  unsatisfactory  as  a  means  of  regu- 
lar transportation,  so  in  the  nineteenth  century  the 
Canal  Lateral  was  constructed  to  carry  the  traffic  a 
hundred  and  twenty  miles  nearer  the  Atlantic,  where 
it  joins  the  river  near  St.  Pierre-d'Aurillac. 

[187] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

Albj:: — and  the  Cathedral.  It  stirs  you  like  the 
Pyramids  with  its  awful  simplicity  and  tremendous 
mass ;  it  crushes  you,  dominates  you.  Is  it  merely 
a  fortified  church?  Is  it  a  sanctified  fortress.''  What 
is  it?  And  out  of  the  dim,  vague  past  that  produced 
it  comes  the  answer:  I  am  the  mighty  rock  to  cast 
a  shadow  in  a  weary  land,  and  the  strong  fortress 
that  cannot  fall.     I  am  the  Church. 

"The  circumstances  which  compelled  the  fortifica- 
tion of  practically  all  the  churches  of  the  Midi,"  says 
a  French  publication  dealing  with  the  Cathedral, 
"explain  the  character  of  Ste.  Cecile  and  its  origin." 
Then  it  goes  on  to  declare  that,  though  the  Albigen- 
sian  heresy  had  almost  vanished,  the  bishop  was  so 
zealous  in  his  prosecution  of  heretics  that  there  were 
determined  reprisals  against  him,  which  led  him  to 
make  his  church  a  material  symbol  of  power;  and 
for  three  hundred  years  the  faithful,  the  bishop  and 
the  clergy  were  often  glad  to  put  themselves  under 
the  protection  of  the  mighty  walls  of  the  Cathedral. 

Flanked  by  the  archiepiscopal  palace-fortress,  it 
rises  on  the  crest  of  an  abrupt  hill  overlooking  the 
river  Tarn.  A  huge  hall,  about  446  feet  long  by 
120  feet  wide,  it  terminates  at  the  western  end  in 
a  square  tower  like  a  donjon  keep,  that  rises  152  feet 
above  the  walls,  which  themselves  soar  up  157  feet. 
Bald  as  the  figures  are,  they  give  a  faint  idea  of  the 
sky-piercing  character  of  the  edifice.  Then  consider 
that  every  corner  is  a  round  military  tower,  thicken- 
ing into  a  massive  glacis  at  the  base;  that  the  but- 

[  i88  ] 


THROUGH    LANGUEDOC 


tresses  are  also  towers  mighty  in  defense;  that  not 
a  window,  loophole,  or  arrow-slit,  even,  comes  any- 
where near  the  ground,  and  you  have  some  notion 
of  the  noble  conception.  All  the  old  outworks  which 
once  fenced  off  its  approaches  have  vanished,  and 
so  have  the  machicolations  of  the  gigantic  main 
tower,  yet  the  effect  is  still  overwhelming.  Against 
the  south  side  of  this  red  brick  fortress  has  been 
thrown  all  the  delicate  witchery  and  magic  of  the 
Gothic,  in  a  gleaming,  white  stone  entrance  vestibule 
of  four  arches.  But  why — what  business  has  a  bit 
of  lacework  on  the  cuirass  of  a  knight,  however  beau- 
tiful it  may  be  in  itself.'^ 

Within,  the  promise  of  the  vast  walls  is  fulfilled, 
and  more.  Before  you,  on  either  hand,  the  tremen- 
dous single  nave  stretches  away,  unbroken  by  pillar 
or  column.  It  is,  as  Gautier  said  of  Toledo  Cathe- 
dral, "a  mountain  scooped  out,  a  valley  turned  topsy- 
turvy." Ninety  feet  or  more  above  the  floor,  the 
painted  ceiling  is  a  veritable  Bible  in  color ;  the  open 
gallery  that  runs  all  around  the  nave  affords  an 
excellent  vantage  ground  for  studying  this  open 
book.  But  the  chef  d'ceuvre  is  the  flamboyant  marble 
screen  of  lacework,  canopied  figures  and  pinnacles, 
that  encloses  the  choir  completely,  and  gives  the 
efi^ect  of  a  small  and  elegant  church  within  a  vast 
one.  Lace  in  stone  it  is,  some  of  it  so  sheer  it  seems 
impossible  that  cold  steel  could  have  wrung  it,  chip 
by  chip,  from  the  inflexible  heart  of  the  block.  So 
amazed  was  Richelieu,  when  first  he  saw  the  screen, 

[189] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

that  he  demanded  a  ladder  and  a  knife,  and  climbing 
up  to  one  of  the  fairylike  spires,  scraped  it  carefully, 
to  assure  himself  that  the  chiseling  was  actually  stone, 
and  not  plaster. 

There  are  in  Albi  other  things  well  worth  while. 
But  Albi  is,  always  will  be,  The  Church,  the  great, 
unconquerable  fortress-sanctuary  upon  a  hill  that 
cannot  be  hid. 


[190] 


xvn 

PERIGUEUX,       LIMOGES       AND       POITIERS 

/ 

CAHUZAC,  Donnazac,  Vindrac,  Najac,  Capde- 
nac,  Figeac — why  does  every  other  station  ■ 
between  Albi  and  Perigueux  end  in  that  » 
harsh  palatal  ac?  At  first  amusing,  then  monot- 
onous, as  town  after  town  terminates,  like  its  fel- 
lows, in  the  un-Gallic  consonant,  it  becomes,  at  last, 
positively  irritating.  But  though  the  nomenclature 
may  annoy,  the  scenery  does  not.  It  is  a  long  and 
vivid  panorama  through  the  valleys  of  the  Vere,  the 
Aveyron,  the  Lot  and  the  Dordogne.  Viaducts 
stretch  their  lean  bodies  across  gorge  and  glen. 
Tunnels  bore  smokily  through  iron  hills — half  the 
scenery  is  dripping  black  walls  and  clouds  of  cinders. 
But  often  you  emerge  into  a  sunny  vale,  full  of  soft- 
colored  fields,  of  bold  little  hills  rising  from  the 
plain  as  abruptly  as  beehives  in  a  farmyard,  capped 
with  wonderful  old  castles,  flushed  a  ruddy  gold  in 
the  afternoon  sunshine.  Najac  is  such,  and  when 
the  Revolution  separated  the  chatelain  of  its  chateau 
from  his  breath  by  Dr.  Guillotine's  most  approved 
and  painless  method,  his  castle  was  knocked  down 
to  some  patriot,  who  pulled  a  good  bit  of  it  to  pieces 

[191] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

for  building  material.  Let  us  hope  he  got  out  of 
it  more  than  the  two  dollars  and  twenty-one  cents 
he  paid  for  the  splendid  old  pile ! 

But  Najac  and  its  woes  are  quickly  forgotten  as 
you  roll  along  over  bad  tracks  through  as  lovely 
a  forest-gorge  as  can  be  imagined,  nine  bridges 
and  as  many  tunnels,  now  on  one  side  of  the  Aveyron, 
now  on  the  other,  serving  to  hold  the  attention  of 
the  most  supercilious  traveler  in  spite  of  himself. 
But  the  greatest  spectacle  does  not  appear  until, 
coming  down  into  the  valley  of  the  Dordogne,  the 
tracks  are  overhung  by  sheer,  beetling  crags  that 
soar  upward  six  hundred  feet.  The  Circus  of  Mont- 
yalent  slowly  unfolds  to  you  in  all  the  grandeur  of 
a  huge,  rocky  theater  of  fantastic  contour.  Again 
the  picture  changes,  and  the  valley  becomes  luxuri- 
antly fertile,  the  grass  and  foliage  and  crops  of 
the  richest,  silkiest  green,  with  the  bald  top  of  a 
hill  crowned  by  the  imposing  twin  towers  of  Turenne, 
all  that  remain  of  the  famous  Marshal  Turenne's 
chateau. 

Coming  into  Perigueux,  you  seem  suddenly  to  have 
entered  the  East,  the  spire  and  beehive  domes  of  the 
Cathedral  of  St.  Front  gleaming  above  the  river 
as  white  and  impressive  as  some  mosque.  How  this 
came  to  be  makes  an  interesting  story.  Along  in  the 
tenth  and  eleventh  centuries  a  brisk  trade  was  car- 
ried on  between  the  Levant  and  the  west  of  France 
and  Britain.  The  corsairs  about  the  Straits  of 
Gibraltar  were  so  active  that  the  merchandise  was 

[  192] 


PERIGUEUX,    LIMOGES   AND   POITIERS 

discharged  at  Marseilles  or  Narbonne,  and  carried 
overland  to  La  Rochelle  or  Nantes,  whence  it  was 
reshipped  northward.  This  trade  was  mostly  in  the 
hands  of  Venetian  merchants,  who,  having  their  head- 
quarters in  Perigueux,  built  them  a  church  in  the 
form  of  a  Greek  cross  with  five  domes,  inspired  by 
their  home  Cathedral  of  San  Marco  in  the  city  by 
the  Adriatic,  with  this  difference,  that  the  domes 
are  polygonal  and  the  arches  slightly  pointed,  as 
in  the  Proven9al  style,  instead  of  being  spherical, 
as  in  the  East. 

At  the  western  end  is  a  huge  square  tower,  crowned 
by  a  domed  lantern  whose  roof,  mounted  upon  a 
beautiful  colonnade,  is  in  the  fish-scale  style.  A 
yard  short  of  two  hundred  feet  in  height,  it  is  the 
only  tower  in  France  in  the  Byzantine  style.  But 
alas !  the  ancient  structure,  which  better  than  any 
other  in  France  showed  what  the  pure  Byzantine 
could  produce,  was  almost  lost  in  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury reconstruction.  The  result  is  offensively  new 
and  glaring  to  him  who  loves  the  soft  tones  of  weath- 
ered stone.  It  leaves  the  beholder  cold — unless  his 
wrath  for  the  "restorer"  warms  him  to  the  mutilated 
cathedral. 

The  interior  is  impressive  only  by  reason  of  its 
grand  dimensions  throughout,  the  mathematical  re- 
currence of  the  soaring  domes,  and  the  general  effect 
of  mass  given  by  them  and  by  the  great  pillars  at 
the  crossing.  Apart  from  the  newness,  the  effect  of 
this  noble  simplicity  is  ruined  by  the  "ecclesiastical 

[193] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

furniture,"  as  the  French  call  it :  atrocious  gilt  chan- 
deliers in  crude  castle-and-turret  design,  glaring 
chromos  on  the  white  limestone  walls,  and  tinsel  of 
the  tawdriest  sort. 

The  Cathedral,  which  was  only  an  abbey  church 
until  the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth  century,  lies 
on  high  ground  in  the  newer  town,  overlooking  the 
river  Isle;  but  down  in  the  old  city  is  the  original 
cathedral,  the  queer  little  church  of  St.  Etienne, 
one  of  the  earliest  in  the  province  to  be  roofed  with 
domes.  Behind  the  high  altar  is  a  most  unusual 
reredos,  thirty  feet  high  by  thirty-six  wide — an 
Assumption  carved  out  of  tough  but  pliant  oak  with 
such  skill  that  the  figures  seem  sympathetic  and  nat- 
ural, despite  the  generally  baroque  character  of  the 
work. 

•  My  camera  was  carefully  poised  on  the  backs  of 
two  chairs,  when  a  priest  entered  hastily  and  allowed 
the  door  to  slam  behind  him  with  a  crash  that  shook 
the  whole  church.  He  hesitated  a  moment,  then 
strode  over  to  my  chairs.  I  expected  the  phrase  I 
had  come  to  dislike  so  cordially :  "Def  ense-of-to-pho- 
tograph  here !"  But  he  only  said  graciously :  "I'm 
very  sorry  I  slammed  that  door.  I  hope  it  didn't 
spoil  your  picture.  .  .  ." 

He  was  very  young,  or  he  would  not  have  apolo- 
gized. It  seems  part  of  religion  in  France  to  an- 
nounce one's  entrance  into  the  sanctuary  with  a  hollow 
boom,  be  the  entrant  priest  or  layman. 

Nearby  we  find  the  ruins  of  a  Roman  amphithea- 

[  194  ] 


Coming  into  Perigueux,  you  see  the  spire  and  domes 

of  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Front  gleaming  above 

the  river  as  impressive  as  some  mosque 


PERIGUEUX,    LIMOGES    AND    POITIERS 

ter,  but  no  such  imposing  fabric  as  at  Aries  or 
Nimes.  The  few  ragged  arches  of  crumbling  ma- 
sonry are  almost  hidden  by  a  luxuriant  screen  of 
clinging  vines  and  bright  flowers  that  spring  from 
the  carefully  tended  little  park  that  fills  the  site  of 
the  former  arena.  A  block  or  two  away,  in  a  fine 
garden,  above  the  railroad  tracks,  is  the  ghost  of 
what  in  its  prime  was  the  delightful  Chateau  Bar- 
riere,  built  on  part  of  the  old  Roman  walls,  and 
burned  by  the  Protestants  toward  the  close  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  Perhaps  in  its  heyday  Chateau 
Barriere  took  an  active  part  in  the  gay  southern  life 
of  which  we  hear  so  much.  You  find  here  memorial 
tablets  to  a  "troubadour  of  Perigueux,"  and  to 
another  sweet  singer.  Across  the  tracks  a  little  way 
farther  along  the  brick  Tower  of  Vesone,  round  and 
massive  and  rough,  has  furnished  the  archaeologists 
with  many  a  discussion,  some  claiming  it  to  be  pure 
Roman,  others  equally  certain  that  it  antedated  the 
Romans  and  was  sacred  to  the  pagan  gods  of  Vesuna, 
a  sort  of  central  pantheon,  to  which  every  street 
in  the  old  Gaulish  city  led. 

As  long  ago  as  1770  a  French  traveler  wrote  of 
Limoges :  "The  subtilty  of  its  air  may  contribute  to 
render  its  inhabitants  grand  eaters."  Perhaps  this 
Limogeois  fondness  for  good  cheer  accounts  for  our 
entertainment  in  a  hotel  such  as  we  found  nowhere 
else  in  France,  at  even  double  the  price.  The  head 
waiter  understood  what  ordering  a  la  carte  meant, 

[r95] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

the  food  and  cooking  were  perfection,  and  we  dined 
on  a  vine-covered  veranda  bordered  by  flowers,  with 
the  beautiful  Place  Jourdain,  the  finest  park  square 
in  the  city,  before  us. 

Porcelain  made  Limoges  famous,  and  the  china 
upon  your  dining-table  probably  came  from  one  of 
the  factories  you  may  visit  freely.  Its  manufacture 
is  interesting  to  watch  in  its  multifarious  processes 
and  dry  to  read  about.  But  the  less  understood  en- 
amel work  is  interesting  in  every  way.  For  Limoges 
paints  with  fire  in  liquid  glass,  and  its  four  or  five 
ateliers  turn  out  veritable  gems  of  color  and  com- 
position. 

The  process  is  almost  primitive  in  its  simplicity. 
Its  success  depends  wholly  upon  the  artistic  feeling 
and  ability  and  the  good  craftsmanship  of  the  maitre 
who  builds  up  each  of  these  pictures  upon  metal, 
for  enamel-making  is  an  art  rather  than  a  mere 
commercial  industry.  The  prices  alone  testify  to 
that.  Copper  is  the  basis  of  all  the  enamels. 
Smoothly  covered  with  a  transparent  coat  of  silica, 
it  is  ready  for  the  next  step.  The  artist  sketches 
his  design  upon  this  coating — a  house  in  the  woods, 
a  pastoral,  a  portrait,  anything.  Then  bits  or  strips 
of  gold,  silver  or  platinum  foil  are  glued  upon  every 
spot  where  the  ruddy  copper  background  is  not 
wanted,  and  again  the  piece  is  transparently  coated 
with  silica. 

The  enamels  themselves  are  different-colored  sili- 
cas that  look  in  the  rough  like  bits  of  broken  glass 

[196] 


PERIGUEUX,    LIMOGES   AND    POITIERS 

of  many  hues.  The  artist  grinds  them  to  powder, 
mixes  them  with  plain  cold  water,  and  then  stipples 
them  on  very  slowly  and  carefully  with  the  tip  of 
a  knife-blade,  to  make  sure  that  each  color  covers 
its  part  of  the  design,  to  burst  all  air  bubbles,  and  to 
secure  a  perfectly  even  thickness  throughout.  One 
color  is  usually  fired  at  a  time,  at  a  temperature  of 
something  like  1,800  degrees  Centigrade,  though  two 
wholly  different  shades  can  be  baked  at  once  without 
running  into  one  another.  Many  of  the  complicated 
enamels  are  fired  as  many  as  fifty  or  sixty  times, 
the  simple  ones  often  thirty;  and  as  three  or  four 
pieces  out  of  every  dozen  made  are  spoiled  before 
the  process  is  complete,  the  successes  have  to  pay  for 
the   failures. 

The  art  is  very  old;  we  find  it  in  a  flourishing 
condition,  with  Limoges  as  its  center,  as  far  back 
as  the  twelfth  century.  During  the  sixteenth,  enam- 
eling reached  the  height  of  its  technical  excellence 
and  popularity,  and  some  of  the  works  of  that  period 
are  treasured  still  in  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Etienne. 
Precious  and  beautiful  they  are,  splendid  in  compo- 
sition and  coloring,  full  of  value  as  contemporary 
likenesses.  And  yet,  though  the  colors  of  old  are 
perhaps  a  little  softer,  the  master  seems  not  to  have 
solved  the  problem  that  confronts  every  artist,  the 
opacity  of  color,  while  the  enamels  of  the  present  are 
transparently  clear,  and  even  the  deepest  shadows 
have  a  luminosity  and  depth  the  older  ones  lack. 

The  Cathedral  is  pure  Gothic  in  style,  and  very 

[197] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

beautiful.  Though  its  building  lasted  from  the  latter 
part  of  the  thirteenth  century  on  through  to  mod- 
ern times,  the  architects  of  the  different  periods  had 
the  good  sense  to  carry  on  the  work  in  perfect  har- 
mony with  what  had  gone  before.  The  most  striking 
thing  to  be  seen  inside  is  the  superb  sixteenth  century 
rood  screen,  which  has  been  moved  from  its  original 
position  to  the  west  end  of  the  nave.  Its  elegant 
sculptured  decorations  include  a  strange  subject  for 
a  Christian  church — the  Labors  of  Hercules.  The 
great  tower  or  belfry,  which  stands  awkwardly  in 
front  of  the  f a9ade,  and  a  little  to  one  side,  is  a  relic 
of  an  earlier  Romanesque  church. 

Limoges  is  a  very  busy  place,  and  right  outside 
the  cathedral  we  found  two  old  women,  one  carding 
wool  and  the  other  making  mattresses  with  it.  The 
wool  was  beautifully  clean  and  soft,  the  old  women 
immaculate,  and  they  had  a  clean  canvas  on  the 
ground  under  their  work.  "How  much  for  mat- 
tresses to-day?"  I  asked. 

The  old  wool-carder  looked  up  cheerily.  "Deux- 
cinquante.  Monsieur^  les  mdlleurs — Two  francs  and 
a  half,  sir,  the  very  best" — she  said. 

"Fifty  cents !  And  how  many  do  you  make  a  day, 
madame  ?" 

This  time  the  mattress-maker  stopped  thrusting  a 
twelve-inch  needle  through  the  ticking — she  was  sew- 
ing the  tufts  on — and  regarded  me  with  distinct  dis- 
approval. "Two — perhaps  three,  when  we  are  not 
disturbed,"  was  her  tart  observation. 

[198]. 


PERIGUEUX,    LIMOGES   AND    POITIERS 

The  busiest  place  I  found  was  the  Street-of-the- 
Butchers,  literally  a  long  lane  of  blood  and  smells. 
One  whifF  is  enough  to  send  almost  any  one  flying 
in  distress  and  disgust;  but  I  was  determined  to  see 
it  through.  The  narrow  gutters  are  full  of  entrails, 
blood,  bits  of  pelt  and  wool.  Meat  all  about  hangs 
in  the  air  to  spoil.  The  most  disagreeable  features 
are  small  animals  skinned  whole,  and  showing  up  like 
villainous  anatomical  charts  in  realistic  colors.  The 
stench  is  pretty  bad,  but  the  people  all  seem  strong 
and  hearty,  even  when  bloody  up  to  their  eyes,  as 
many  of  them  are.  They  are  very  much  alive,  sharp 
and  shrewd,  talking  well,  and  not  encouraging  any 
familiarity  in  the  way  of  jokes  on  their  street  or  their 
amiable  customs.  I  inquired  of  several  if  their  an- 
cient guild  still  endures,  and  was  told  it  is  still 
composed  of  the  "best  people  in  the  city,"  and  is 
the  most  important  of  the  numerous  labor  societies. 

The  church  of  St.  Michel  is  remarkable  for  its 
equality  of  dimensions  in  aisles  and  nave,  and  the 
number  and  size  of  its  beautiful  stained-glass  win- 
dows, which  give  the  effect  of  walls  built  of  colored 
glass  instead  of  stone.  Indeed,  the  architect  did 
reduce  the  walls  to  the  level  of  frames  for  the  win- 
dows, rather  than  of  solid  masses  pierced  for  illumi- 
nation. The  spectacle  in  the  afternoon,  when  the 
sunlight  falls  through  the  richly  colored  glass  in 
floods  of  glory,  that  splash  cold  stone  floor  and  wall 
and  pillar  with  jewels,  when  entering  worshipers 
swing   a   great   bar    of   white   sunshine   across   the 

[199] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

church  every  time  they  open  the  wide  door,  when 
the  burning  candles  about  the  high  altar  and  in  the 
sconces  before  shrines  gem  the  dim  interior  with 
flecks  of  gold,  is  unforgetable.  Not  even  the  mere- 
tricious showiness  of  ex-votos  and  poor  modern 
images  can  spoil  the  satisfying  effect  of  warmth  and 
breadth  and  glorious  color. 

Although  Poitou,  one  of  the  most  colorful  prov- 
inces in  France,  lies  along  the  main  hne  of  the 
railway  from  Paris  to  Bordeaux,  it  is  terra  incognita 
to  the  great  majority  of  travelers.  But  why  rail  at 
the  travelers,  when  the  natives  themselves  know  noth- 
ing of  things  in  their  immediate  vicinity?  Asking 
the  head  waiter  in  our  hotel  in  Poitiers  to  tell  us 
how  to  find  the  Pierre  Levee,  we  were  overwhelmed 
when  he  answered  sheepishly :  "I  can't  tell  you,  sir. 
/  have  never  been  across  the  river T^ 

The  history  of  Poitou  is  no  less  rich  in  contrast 
and  color  than  the  province  itself,  for  great  lords 
and  gallant  ruled  it,  by  no  means  the  least  important 
the  "endless  Williams,"  some  of  whom  were  colorful 
enough  to  satisfy  any  one.  Indeed,  Count  William 
IX  was  the  first  troubadour,  and  a  '^ grand  trompeur 
dcs  dames — a  great  deceiver  of  ladies."  His  grand- 
daughter Eleanor  was  the  first  of  the  troubadours' 
queens  of  chivalry ;  and  she  it  was  who,  divorced  from 
the  King  of  France,  carried  her  domains  with  her, 
to  the  sorrow  of  France,  when,  in  1152,  she  married 
Henry   II   of  England.      The  name  of  the   capital 

[  200  1 


PERIGUZVX.    LIMOGE3    AND    P0ITIZR5 

city,  P     "               c  v-..^-  --  ,  J^  famous  by  tKree  battles, 

none  c  :  -. — the  first,  when  Clovis 

cmsli-:  "  -  ;  "  ■  J   "  : .  -arKeii  Charles  Mar- 

tel  :  _  -    "    :    •*  ,    it"  is    said,   had 


CrecT. 

Two  ri"vers,  the  Chiin  and  the  Boivre.  have  hewn 


1  --ti 


a  great   mo-i':   accu"   i.ie   ::■:■:   ot    me   r:, ,    on   wnicr. 


d*A 


It 


Qt 

Ch 

of  S; 

It  U, 


everv  stV. 


ranee  la 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

either  side,  than  anything  else.  The  roof  is  built 
of  courses  of  stone,  which  give  the  effect  of  a  series 
of  huge  inverted  saucers  of  graduated  sizes  piled 
one  upon  another.  This  ancient.fane  is  used  to-day 
as  a  museum  of  antiquities,  principally  very  early 
Christian  tombs,  mortuary  tablets,  fragments  of  old 
capitals,  and  decorative  sculpture.  It  was  built  dur- 
ing the  rule  of  Poiters'  great  bishop,  St.  Hilary,  and 
down  near  the  neck  of  the  pear  the  remarkable  and 
indescribable  Romanesque  church  of  St.  Hilaire,  with 
a  nave,  six  aisles  and  six  cupolas,  commemorates  him 
in  suitable  fashion. 

They  were  days  of  both  terror  and  romance,  those 
primitive  centuries.  Often  both  mingled  in  some 
such  moving  tale  as  that  of  the  Lady  Radegonde,  the 
young  Thuringian  princess  taken  prisoner  by  Clo- 
thaire  I,  son  of  Clovis,  and  forced  to  become  his 
unhappy  child  bride.  Unable  to  endure  her  vicious 
and  cruel  husband — among  other  things,  he  murdered 
her  little  brother — she  soon  ran  away  from  the  palace 
at  Soissons.  Fortunately  for  Radegonde,  the  Church 
protected  her,  and,  coming  to  Poitiers,  she  founded 
a  quiet  nunnery  above  the  river,  and  spent  her  days 
in  holiness  and  charity.  Her  church  as  it  stands 
to-day  makes  a  striking  impression  with  its  great 
flat  buttresses,  its  many-sided  apse  and  chapels,  its 
massive  western  tower,  and  its  tall,  exceedingly  slen- 
der fliche.  The  interior,  wide  and  aisleless,  is  clearly 
Angevin — very  simple,  but  effective.  The  crypt, 
dark  and  musty  as  a  tomb  chamber  should  be — ^in 

[  202  ] 


PERIGUEUX,    LIMOGES   AND   POITIERS 

imagination — is  illuminated  by  the  flicker  of  the  can- 
dles of  perpetual  remembrance  burning  before  the 
fine  marble  figure  representing  the  saint,  for  which 
Anne  of  Austria  was  the  royal  model.  One  receives 
a  wholly  new  impression  down  there  of  what  the 
Church  meant  to  high  and  low  alike,  in  those  troubled 
days,  when  to  have  was  to  hold,  without  counting 
the  cost,  unless  the  Church  thrust  its  mighty  arm 
between  owner  and  chattel  or  liege  and  vassal. 

No  Hindu  temple  looks  stranger  than  the  aston- 
ishing and  overvalued  church  of  Notre  Dame  la 
Grande — enough  to  make  the  city's  reputation  by 
itself.  It  rises  from  a  dusty  square  crowded  with 
the  tents  and  benches  of  peasant  market-folk,  its 
conical  tourelles  and  tower  roofed  in  the  fish-scale 
pattern,  its  western  fa9ade  an  amazing  medley  in 
which  bizarre,  sculptured  grotesques,  animals  and 
chimeras,  throw  the  dignified  figures  of  the  Christ, 
the  apostles,  and  others  into  strange  relief.  The 
columns  about  the  door  are  even  wilder,  made  of 
writhing,  twisting  serpents  and  apelike  forms  that 
have  a  horrid  fascination.  It  is  not  art,  yet  some- 
how I  found  it  hard  not  to  study  every  repulsive 
part  by  itself.  Long  afterward  I  found  justification 
for  my  unconscious  attitude  in  the  naif  confession 
of  a  great  German  critic,  who  declared  that  it  takes 
considerable  will-power  to  see  beyond  these  details 
to  the  architecture  itself. 

The  exterior  of  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Pierre,  neither 

beautiful  nor  ugly  nor  even  yet  commonplace,  hardly 

[203] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

prepares  you  for  the  imposing  dimensions  and  plan 
of  the  interior.  The  device  of  narrowing  and  lower- 
ing the  nave  and  aisles  as  they  run  from  doors  to 
apse,  in  order  to  convey  the  impression  of  greater 
size  and  give  a  finer  perspective,  is  so  well  done 
that  it  is  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  rest  of  the 
interior.  No  one  but  the  student  will  notice  it, 
except  after  study,  and  even  then  it  takes  nothing 
from  the  general  effect. 

One  afternoon  a  little  girl  in  mourning  dress 
came  in  with  two  mere  babies,  both  in  the  same  griev- 
ous color.  No  black  smocks  these,  but  the  weeds  of 
grief.  The  number  of  children  throughout  France 
who  proclaim  the  loss  of  a  parent  in  this  cruel  fash- 
ion is  astonishing;  and  the  worst  of  it  is  that  their 
little  minds  are  so  filled  with  the  panoply  of  Death 
that  they  take  a  flaunting  pleasure  in  their  funereal 
garb.  Leading  the  children  to  font  and  altar,  the 
little  mother  helped  them  through  their  devotions 
with  what  seemed  to  the  uninitiate  profane  celerity. 
Then,  almost  knocking  the  littlest  and  most  obstrep- 
erous baby  down  to  compel  her  obedience,  she  liter- 
ally dragged  them  back  to  the  font  again  and  made 
them  cross  themselves.  They  seemed  not  to  mind 
it  in  the  least,  but  grinned  at  us  cheerily  as  they 
were  thrust  at  the  holy  water  and  immediately  shooed 
from  the  edifice,  as  predatory  chickens  are  driven 
from  a  flower-bed.  It  was  very  pathetic,  and  petite 
mere  showed  clearly  how  deep  the  ritual  had  sunk 
into  her  poor  little  groping  child-soul.      The  chil- 

[204] 


PERIGUEUX,    LIMOGES   AND    POITIERS 

dren  of  Poitou  seem  more  devoted  to  their  faith 
than  any  others  we  saw  in  France.  We  found  them 
in  every  church  in  the  city,  httle  suppliants  who 
looked  pitifully  small  and  helpless,  and  in  need  of 
the  help  they  came  so  religiously  to  seek. 

Churches  seem  to  be  the  only  things  of  artistic 
value  that  Poitiers  keeps  out  in  the  open.  An  aston- 
ishing number  of  beautiful  scraps  is  hidden  away, 
however,  behind  or  among  the  most  dreary  common- 
places, one  of  them  the  guardroom  of  the  fourteenth 
century  palace  of  the  Counts,  a  vast  hall  fifty-six 
feet  wide  and  one  hundred  and  sixty  long,  with  a 
triple  Gothic  chimneypiece  at  one  end  so  large  half 
a  regiment  could  toast  its  shins  about  the  fires.  In 
front  is  a  Greek  temple  Palace  of  Justice,  a  favo^-ite 
form  of  architecture  for  such  buildings.  What  rela- 
tion is  there  in  the  modern  mind  between  a  Greek 
temple  and  the  punishment  of  crime.'' 

Nearby,  as  I  photographed  a  very  fat  man 
driving  a  great  black  dog  who  was  hauling  a  cart 
full  of  vegetables,  the  peasant  called  out  cheerily: 
"Did  you  take  me,  too.?  I  don't  mind.  It's  only 
the  dog  that  cares." 


1 205 1 


XVIII 

THE      PLAYGROUND       OF       THE      KINGS 

FROM  the  thirteenth  century,  when  that  con- 
structive monarch,  Philippe- Auguste,  finally 
gathered  the  province  of  Touraine  in  from 
the  English,  it  became  the  favorite  playground  of 
the  French  kings.  And  what  could  be  more  dehght- 
ful  for  a  royal  pleasaunce  than  this  broad,  smiling 
district,  full  of  wide  sunny  spaces,  with  a  great, 
lustrous  river  winding  through  as  it  gathers  in  its 
gleaming  tributaries?  Here  king  and  noble  alike 
reared  his  proud,  defensible  residence,  a  medieval 
castle-fortress,  more  often  than  not  crowning  a 
height  from  which  he  could  command  the  sunny  plain. 
As  time  went  on,  however,  the  castle  developed  into 
an  edifice  more  for  residence  and  pleasure  than  for 
defense,  more  often  than  not  nestling  in  the  lowlands 
beside  one  of  the  shimmering  streams. 

Tours  was  the  capital  and  converging  point  of 
this  district,  and  though  the  kings  are  gone.  Tours 
and  its  surroundings  are  a  playground  yet.  The 
dust  of  countless  automobiles  flies  in  the  streets  by 
day  and  night ;  its  hotels  are  among  the  largest  and 
best  in  France;  it  is  a  popular  starting  point  for 

[206] 


THE    PLAYGROUND    OF   THE    KINGS 

excursions  in  every  direction,  and  the  first  thing 
that  strikes  the  stranger  is  the  large  number  of 
Enghsh  and  Americans  who  seem  perfectly  at  home 
in  street  and  hotel,  cafe  and  store. 

The  city  lies  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Loire,  an 
a  flat  tongue  of  land  between  it  and  the  little  river 
Cher,  just  above  their  junction;  but  the  Loire  is  a 
very  uncertain  quantity,  its  uncertainty  preventing 
navigation  such  as  one  expects  to  find  on  a  great 
waterway.  In  its  pleasant  moods  it  is  given  over 
to  amusements :  children  wade  fearlessly  in  its  tepid 
current;  men  and  women  alike  fish — by  the  year,  ap- 
parently— from  banks  and  bridges  and  boats ;  and 
canoes  and  small  craft  play  up  and  down  the  shal- 
lows. It  also  takes  by  no  means  an  insignificant 
part,  with  its  regattas  and  swimming  races,  in  the 
merrymaking  of  the  July  14th  celebration,  the  anni- 
versary of  the  fall  of  the  Bastille.  We  were  in  Tours 
on  the  great  occasion,  and  found  it  the  same  sort 
of  festival  that  our  own  Independence  Day  will  be 
when  we  succeed  in  expurgating  it  of  murder  and 
holocaust — if  we  ever  do. 

The  crowds  were  full  of  soldiers :  black  dragoons 
with  their  horse-tail  plumes  and  helmets,  armored 
blue  cuirassiers,  leather-legged  red-and-blue  artillery- 
men, lavender  hussars,  and  even  magenta  Zouaves 
and  white  Turcos,  all  behaving  themselves  Hke  gen- 
tlemen. These  brilliant  bits  of  military  color  give 
a  character  to  crowds  in  foreign  cities  that  is  wholly 
lacking  here. 

[207] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

There  is  always  color  in  the  crowds  in  Tours.  On 
the  busy  rue  Nationale  one  day  we  met  the  queerest 
combination  vehicle  imaginable,  a  hand-organ  baby 
carriage,  the  very  height  of  utility.  Mother  ground 
out  the  music  while  baby  howled  an  obbligato,  and 
two  older  tots  pirouetted,  smirked,  and  gathered  in 
the  pennies.  These  were  no  such  dancers,  however, 
as  the  gipsy  children  of  Granada.  Neither  do  these 
dancers  live  in  caves,  though  a  little  way  outside 
Tours  is  an  odd  cave-town  in  the  chalky  cliffs.  It 
almost  makes  you  jump  to  see  a  glazed  window  star- 
ing at  you  from  the  blank,  apparently  solid  rock; 
or  a  queer,  slender  chimney,  with  smoke  curling  from 
it,  sticking  up  like  some  freakish  pinnacle  of  the 
hill.  A  Tours  stationer  told  me  he  rented  one  of 
these  cave-dwellings  for  the  summer.  He  said  it 
had  a  number  of  rooms,  and  was  sanitary  in  every 
way.     I  don't  know.   .  .  . 

But  there  are  many  fine  old  houses  in  Tours,  among 
them  one  said  to  be  that  of  Tristan  the  Hermit, 
Louis  XI's  hangman.  It  was  probably  built  much 
later  than  Tristan's  time,  and  its  decoration  of  a 
twisted  cord  upon  the  f  a9ade  may  be  the  only  reason 
for  its  somewhat  unenviable  notoriety.  But  it  is  an 
attractive  mansion,  whoever  its  owner  may  have  been 
long  ago,  and  it  has  a  tall  stair-tower  in  its  court- 
yard. A  subterranean  passage  is  said  to  have  con- 
nected the  real  house  of  Tristan  with  the  chateau  at 
Plessis-les-Tours — ^now  a  heap  of  ruins — Louis'  fa- 
yorite  residence,  where  he  died.     Whether  true  or 

[208] 


THE   PLAYGROUND    OF   THE    KINGS 

not,  the  story  fits  in  perfectly  with  all  we  know  of 
the  somber  monarch,  who  liked  to  have  his  grim 
persuader  handy. 

The  Cathedral,  dedicated  to  St.  Gatien,  who 
brought  Christianity  to  the  city  and  became  the 
first  bishop  of  the  diocese,  was  commenced  early  in 
the  twelfth  century,  but  its  construction  dragged 
along  until  Renaissance  cupolas  were  added  in  the 
sixteenth.  Yet  it  really  looks  better  than  that  sounds, 
with  its  fanciful  extravagance  of  flamboyant  orna- 
ment charmingly  executed.  Other  churches  there 
are,  both  new  and  old,  and  fragments  of  abbeys ; 
memories  of  St.  Clotilde,  the  vigorous  but  godly  wife 
of  Clovis,  who  ended  her  days  here  in  a  convent ;  of 
the  soldier-saint,  IVIartin,  who  was  truly  a  soldier  of 
the  cross  ;  of  Gregory  of  Tours,  the  famous  historian. 
But  why  spend  time  on  saints  and  churches,  with  all 
Touraine  about  us.f^ 

Here,  for  once,  I  would  advise  an  automobile, 
though  there  is  danger  always  of  hastening  away 
from  some  historic  spot  too  soon  because  of  the 
ease  in  doing  so.  Nevertheless,  the  automobile  is 
best,  because  you  can  have  a  dozen  points  of  view 
from  your  car  to  one  from  a  train.  One  of  the  love- 
liest views  I  ever  had,  in  Touraine  or  elsewhere,  was 
a  glimpse  of  fields  and  farmhouses  by  a  little  river, 
seen  through  trees  on  which  great  birds'  nests  of 
mistletoe  were  outlined  against  the  sky.  I  never 
should  have  noticed  it  from  a  train. 

In  the  eleventh  century  the  fierce  counts  of  the 

[209] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

neighboring  province  of  Anjou  were  constantly 
struggling  for  the  possession  of  the  fair  land  of 
Touralne,  and  not  a  town  but  has  Its  legend  of  Black 
Fulk  of  Anjou.  At  Loches  we  find  him  perched  high 
above  the  Indre — a  branch  of  the  Loire — swooping 
out,  like  the  falcon  he  was,  right  and  left  against 
his  enemies,  and  with  but  one  thought  in  liis  mind — 
the  expansion  of  Anjou.  In  his  day,  the  castle  was 
a  stronghold,  pure  and  simple ;  but  in  the  fifteenth 
century  Charles  VII  built  a  pleasant  hunting  lodge 
inside  it.  The  town  of  Loches,  grouped  about  the 
castle  hill,  with  its  donjon,  its  church,  its  chateau, 
and  its  fortifications,  presents  a  most  picturesque 
ensemble.  The  moat  has  long  since  been  filled  up, 
but  the  walls,  about  a  mile  and  a  quarter  around, 
are  still  mostly  standing,  and  there  are  few  more 
impressive  entrances  anywhere  in  Europe  than  the 
ugly,  massive,  frowning  gateway,  with  the  narrow, 
vertical  slots  in  the  curtain  wall,  through  which  the 
drawbridge  chains  used  to  work. 

The  church  of  St.  Ours  is  a  most  remarkable  Ro- 
manesque structure,  with  a  roof  of  four  pyramids, 
one  in  front,  one  almost  over  the  apse,  and  two 
forming  the  roof  of  the  nave.  The  entrance  is 
through  a  porch  or  narthex  full  of  grotesque  sculp- 
tures, beyond  which  stretches  the  cool,  dim  vista  of 
the  nave,  with  its  weird  upside-down-cornucopias  ceil- 
ing. Everything  in\ates  detailed  inspection.  But 
the  girl  who  takes  you  around  demands  that  you 
listen  to  her  parrot  speech — English,  committed  to 

[210] 


THE    PLAYGROUND    OF   THE    KINGS 

memory,  and  recited  without  the  shghtest  sense  of 
its  meaning,  and  with  the  horrible  enunciation  of  a 
mute  who  has  been  taught  to  talk.  She  will  not  even 
answer  questions  in  French  intelligently,  and,  if 
you  ask  too  many,  begins  her  performance  all  over 
again.  Her  family  seems  to  have  a  monopoly  of  the 
grounds,  and,  no  matter  which  way  you  turn,  one 
of  them  jumps  at  you,  loaded  to  the  muzzle. 

To  the  left  of  the  church  is  the  Chateau  Royal, 
strong  and  simple,  its  plain  walls  relieved  by  fine 
moldings  and  carved  corbels  under  the  roof.  The 
building  is  now  the  Sub-Prefecture  of  Police,  and 
little  of  it  is  shown.  In  one  tower  is  the  tomb  of 
Agnes  Sorel,  originally  in  the  church.  She  left  a 
large  sum  of  money  to  the  monks ;  but  they,  alleging 
scruples  as  to  her  life,  asked  Louis  XI  to  let  them 
remove  the  body.  The  king  agreed,  if  they  .would 
also  give  up  her  money.  They  kept  the  tomb !  Later 
it  was  placed  in  the  chateau.  Above  the  entrance  to 
another  stair-tower  is  a  bas-relief,  now  badly  weath- 
ered, but  still  quite  clear,  showing  Charles-  and  Agnes 
in  a  bower  in  the  woods. 

A  nobler  figure  haunts  the  chateau,  Anne  of  Brit- 
tany, queen  successively  to  Charles  VIII  and  Louis 
XII,  who  found  inspiration  and  solace  in  a  tiny 
oratory  high  above  the  ground,  and  so  small  it  is 
a  mere  cell.  At  one  end  beside  the  door  is  the  altar, 
decorated  with  her  device  of  ermines'  tails  and  the 
knotted  cordon  of  the  Franciscans,  But  Anne  is 
not  the  dominant  figure  here. 

[211] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

Louis  XI  seems  almost  incarnate  in  the  donjon, 
a  huge  square  keep  with  massive  buttresses,  tower- 
ing up  130  feet  into  the  air,  now  roofless  and  floorless 
in  each  of  its  four  stories,  redolent  of  cruelty  and 
blood.  The  keep  in  which  he  perpetrated  his  most 
diabolical  cruelties  is  the  smaller  one  he  built  along- 
side, especially  for  the  reception  of  former  favorites ; 
and  in  a  corridor  you  may  read,  if  your  eyes  are 
good,  and  the  custodian  lights  a  match,  the  ironical 
invitation  scrawled  by  some  hapless  prisoner:  "Entres 
messieurs  chez  le  roy  nostre  mestre — Enter,  gentle- 
men, to  the  king,  our  master."  The  cells  are  horrors : 
up  in  the  air  and  down  under  the  ground,  some  lighted 
by  slits  in  the  walls,  many  not  lighted  at  all. 

In  several  of  these  dens  the  cruel  monarch  placed 
his  own  peculiar  instruments  of  torture,  cages  four 
feet  square  inside.  One  of  his  most  noted  prisoners 
was  the  Cardinal  de  la  Balue,  a  rare  old  scoundrel, 
not  unlike  himself.  In  a  sloping  passageway  giving 
upon  his  cell,  Louis  used  to  squat  and  mumble  pray- 
ers to  the  leaden  images  of  the  Virgin  stuck  in  the 
greasy  band  of  his  shabby  old  hat,  gloating  all  the 
while  over  his  victim,  who  could  neither  stand  up  nor 
lie  down.  Now  and  then  the  king  would  stop  his 
patter  of  prayers  to  order  the  handy  Tristan : 
"Further  agitate  his  Eminence,  my  Tristan !"  And 
the  cage  would  swing  to  and  fro. 

No  such  sinister  memories  come  to  mind  at  Chinon, 
though  counts  and  kings  were  there  a-plenty — it 
was  the  Plantagenet  Henry  II's  favorite  continental 

[212] 


THE    PLAYGROUND    OF   THE    KINGS 

residence.  In  this  great  triple  fortress-castle  that 
towers  above  the  placid  Vienne  a  royal  crown  of 
ruined  grandeur,  all  other  history  pales  before  that 
of  Jeanne  d'Arc,  the  Maid.  It  was  in  1429  that  the 
lazy,  weak  Charles  VII,  sneeringly  called  the  "King 
of  Bourges,"  while  enjoying  himself  in  the  great 
white  riverside  fortress  with  a  gay  court,  finally 
agreed  to  receive  Joan.  Among  the  scornful  train 
in  brilliant  attire  who  thronged  the  great  hall — now 
so  desolate  that  the  very  birds  do  not  roost  in  it — 
the  figure  of  Joan  must  have  been  a  striking  appa- 
rition— "With  none  of  the  glory  of  his  court  in 
her  attire,  but  with  all  the  glory  of  God  in  her 
face,"  as  Mr.  Shoemaker  has  it. 

Of  the  three  chateaux  that  made  up  Chinon,  the 
Chateau  St.  Georges  has  been  entirely  razed.  All 
that  remains  of  the  Grand  Logis,  or  royal  apart- 
ments in  the  Chateau  du  Milieu,  are  bare  walls  with 
here  and  there  an  elegant  chimneypiece  hanging  to 
them.  Across  a  moat  that  looks  a  hundred  feet 
wide  and  is  spanned  by  a  bridge  as  enduring  as  time, 
you  come  to  the  third  part,  the  Chateau  of  Courdray, 
with  the  tower  in  which  the  Maid  resided  during  her 
stay  at  Chinon.  In  the  grass  beside  it  are  still 
visible  the  foundations  of  the  Chapel  of  St.  Martin, 
where  she  spent  much  of  her  time  in  prayer. 

As  we  stand  on  one  of  the  towers,  looking  out  at 
the  glory  of  river  and  plain  under  the  sunset,  we 
wonder  how  many  times  Jeanne  stood  there,  and  what 
were  her  dreams   in   those   sunset   hours,   when   the 

[213I 


\9-(V> 


>\^ 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

castle  lay  a  golden  house  among  the  purple  lilacs 
of  the  spring.  Had  she  any  omen  of  success — and 
death?  Had  the  subtle  prison  of  the  royal  atmos- 
phere that  afterward  was  her  undoing  already  be- 
gun to  work  in  her  veins?  Or  was  she  rather  not 
still  the  perfect,  innocent  child,  waiting  only  the 
royal  word  to  speed  to  the  rehef  of  the  beleaguered 
city  of  Orleans?  If  Orleans  was  as  deadly  dull  and 
monotonous  in  those  days  as  it  is  now,  we  cannot 
wonder  that  Jeanne  had  hard  work  in  persuading 
pleasure-loving  Charles  that  it  was  worthy  of  rescue. 
The  only  redeeming  features  we  could  find  there  were 
the  beautiful  sixteenth  century  Hotel  de  Ville  and  the 
tiny  little  park  back  of  it. 

The  blood-stained  castle  of  Amboise,  with  its  lofty 
walls  and  ramparts  defended  by  three  massive  tow- 
ers, stands  magnificently  high  above  river  and  town. 
Its  effectiveness  is  greatly  enhanced  by  the  lofty 
ground  it  stands  on,  and  by  the  masonry  of  its  outer 
walls  being  carried  all  the  way  up  from  low  ground. 
Some  sort  of  castle  occupied  this  plateau  from  Gaul- 
ish times,  and  we  come  upon  the  trail  of  Black  Fulk 
of  Anjou  here,  and  the  specter  of  cruel  Louis  XI 
also.  But  of  all  its  checkered  story  the  great  scene 
is  the  last,  a  grim,  melodramatic  vengeance  before  the 
assembled  court — the  dour  Due  de  Guise;  Catherine 
de'  Medici,  holding  to  the  scene  by  her  iron  will 
her  weak  son,  Francis  II,  and  his  trembling  bride, 
Mary  Stuart.  When  the  hideous  butchery  was  done, 
the  chateau  was  decorated  with  Huguenot  heads,  the 

[214] 


THE    PLAYGROUND    OF   THE    KINGS 


river  ran  red,  and  the  forest  was  stumbling-full  of 
bodies.  The  frivolous  court  fled  the  loathsome  sights 
and  smells — the  day  of  Amboise  was  over ;  the  kings 
never  came  back. 

Though  the  beautiful  river  f a9ade,  built  by  Charles 
VIII,  after  his  useless  and  foolish  campaign,  shows 
Italian  influence,  it  is  usually  Francis  I  who  receives 
the  credit  for  having  habituated  the  Italian  arts  in 
France.  Among  the  masters  of  the  Renaissance  who 
put  their  genius  in  Gallic  harness  at  his  call  was 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  who  died  at  Amboise.  In  the 
terraced  garden  there  is  a  small  bust  of  the  master. 
I  was  photographing  it,  when  a  Frenchman  and  his 
wife,  apparently  of  some  position,  came  up  with  a 
guide.  Evidently  Madame  did  not  understand  that 
worthy's  mouthings,  and  turned  to  her  husband. 
"Henri,  who  was  this  man,  da  Vinci?"  Henri  was 
fully  equal  to  the  occasion:  "Oh,  just  some  fellow 
that  died  here." 

The  entrance  to  the  chateau  is  by  a  long  ramp 
that  leads  up  past  the  old  fortified  wall  and  a  little 
,^em  of  the  Gothic,  the  chapel  of  St.  Hubert,  built 
by  Charles  VIII,  and  elaborately  decorated  with  carv- 
ings within  and  without.  In  the  tympanum  above 
the  door  is  a  good  modern  carving  showing  Charles 
on  the  left  and  his  Queen,  Anne  of  Brittany,  on 
the  right  of  the  Virgin  and  Child  enthroned.  Poor 
Anne !  She  has  fared  ill  at  the  hands  of  some  biog- 
raphers, who  seem  to  have  small  appreciation  for  a 
virtuous  woman  in  France.     But  a  kinder  historian, 

[215] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

Mr.  Theodore  A.  Cook,  says  of  her  and  her  ladies: 
"Like  another  Vesta,  or  another  Diana,  she  held  all 
her  nymphs  in  strict  discipline,  and  yet  remained 
full  of  sweetness  and  courtesy." 

The  town  of  Amboise,  as  a  whole,  is  one  of  the  most 
medieval-looking,  mysterious  old  places  along  the 
Loire,  full  of  dark,  winding  alleys,  and  houses  whose 
barred  windows  and  heavily  protected  doors  are  elo- 
quent of  stormy  times. 

After  the  slaughter  at  Amboise  the  tragedy  moved 
on  to  Blois,  where  the  Due  de  Guise  met  his  just 
deserts  at  the  orders  of  the  cowardly  Henry  III, 
brother  of  Francis  II.  Treacherously  stabbed  in 
a  dark  passageway.  Guise  staggered  into  the  king's 
private  chamber,  where  he  fell  dying  at  the  foot 
of  the  royal  bed,  calling  for  the  king,  who  meantime 
was  in  hiding  behind  a  curtain  in  a  passageway. 
Next  day  the  duke's  cardinal-brother  was  killed  like 
a  trapped  rat  in  a  prison  cell  below.  A  few  days 
later,  wicked  old  Catherine  de'  Medici  died,  raving, 
in  her  rooms  nearby,  and  within  the  year  Henry 
himself  was  murdered.  Then  the  royalty  of  France 
gave  up  the  chateau  forever. 

The  northwest  wing  of  Blois,  erected  by  Francis  I, 

is  wonderful  as  you  approach  it,  a  huge  mass  rising 

on  a  mighty,  fortress-like  base,  whose  walls  are  a 

castle  in  themselves.     The  high  Gothic  roof  is  still 

maintained,  but   everywhere  the  Gotliic   ornamental 

details    have    been    displaced    by    the    Renaissance. 

Double  Spanish  arcades,  which  give  light  and  shadow 

[216] 


THE   PLAYGROUND    OF   THE    KINGS 

exactly  where  needed,  add  an  attractive  feature  sel- 
dom seen  in  France.  Across  the  fa9ade  is  a  wonder- 
ful row  of  gargoyles,  and  to  stand  in  the  corner 
turret  and  look  along  at  these  unchanging  monsters 
racing  forward,  as  it  were,  is  to  set  the  clock  back 
four  hundred  years,  and  to  feel,  somehow,  part  of 
the  Middle  Ages  yourself. 

On  the  court  side  of  this  wing  is  the  gem  of  the 
whole  chateau,  the  escalier  a  jour,  that  stands  boldly 
forth  from  the  pillared  wall  without  destroying  its 
symmetry,  and  which  in  itself  is  perfect  and  radiant. 
The  carving  is  as  delicate  as  goldsmith's  work,  even 
in  the  mere  grotesques.  It  was  probably  done  by 
Italian  artists,  but  the  large  figures  in  the  niches 
are  ascribed  to  Jean  Goujon,  as  everything  of  un- 
known origin  at  this  period  generally  is. 

The  facade  of  the  earlier  wing,  built  by  Louis  XII, 
presents  a  very  striking  appearance,  with  red  and 
white  brick  and  a  great,  flamboyant  portal.  Of  the 
later  work  of  Gaston  d'Orleans  the  less  said  the 
better.  He  planned  a  total  reconstruction  of  the 
chateau,  with  the  aid  of  Mansart,  but,  as  a  French 
mentor  quaintly  puts  it,  "fortunately,  he  died  before 
being  able  to  realize  his  schemes." 

On  entering  the  chateau,  unless  you  bribe  the  guide, 

he  drags  you  into  a  museum  on  the  ground  floor 

that  is  a  weariness.      The  rooms  were  the  private 

apartments  of  Louis  XII  and  Anne  of  Brittany,  and 

the   most   noticeable    things    about    them    are    their 

smallness  and  simplicity  and  their  amazing  chimney- 

[217] 


FRANCE   FROM   SEA  TO   SEA 

pieces.  Throughout  the  chateau  the  color-schemes, 
of  course  all  restorations,  are  fairly  barbaric,  the 
colors  rich  beyond  description,  but  piled  on  one  an- 
other without  regard  for  either  harmony  or  contrast. 

I>own  a  little  sloping  side  street,  near  the  Cathe- 
dral, stands  the  house  of  the  old  sonneur,  or  bell- 
ringer.  Quaint,  wasp-waisted  figures  of  men  who 
seem  to  be  either  steeple- jacks  or  acrobats,  crawl  up 
the  pilasters  of  the  upper  stories,  and  on  the  central 
pilaster  of  the  third  story  three  of  them  are  tangled 
together  in  a  most  realistic  aerial  snarl.  Blois  is 
rich  in  old  houses,  queer,  twisting,  mysterious  streets, 
and  an  atmosphere  ample  in  suggestion.  There  is 
something  immensely  gratifying  about  it  all,  a  sense 
of  being  in  a  measure  a  proper  part  of  the  old 
times  yourself.  This  sense  came  to  me  in  no  other 
city  in  northern  France. 

The  chateau  of  Chambord  stands  in  the  middle  of 
a  vast  park,  surrounded  by  a  wall  twenty-one  miles 
in  circumference,  the  whole  in  a  flat,  uninteresting 
country.  It  was  built  for  Francis  I  by  Pierre  Nep- 
veu,  but  it  seems  certain  that  the  King  had  a  hand 
in  the  conception  of  the  work,  which  was  to  make 
him,  according  to  his  own  notion,  one  of  the  greatest 
builders  of  the  universe.  To  be  sure,  the  stupendous 
chateau,  512  by  385  feet,  with  its  four  great  towers 
in  the  fa9ade,  probably  looked  very  different  when 
rising  out  of  the  waters  of  its  moat.  It  must  be 
taken  for  what  it  is,  an  attempt  to  unite  the  fortified 

[218  J 


THE   PLAYGROUND    OF   THE    KINGS 

castle  of  the  Middle  Ages  and  the  pleasure  palace 
of  the  sixteenth  century — an  absurd  proposition. 

The  roofs  are  a  perfect  forest  of  little  pinnacles, 
carven  chimneys,  turrets  and  sculptured  ornament, 
with  dormer  windows  everywhere,  and  above  all,  the 
big  double  lantern  of  the  main  stair-tower.  This 
gimcrackery  justifies  Chateaubriand's  description : 
"The  brilliant  butterfly  of  the  Renaissance  striving 
to  burst  through  its  still  visible  chrysalis  of  Gothic 
traditions,  the  laced  and  ruffled  head  of  the  cavalier 
appearing  above  the  strong  joints  of  his  armor, 
the  beauty  that  was  sought  for,  and  so  nearly  won, 
showing  clearer  than  the  failure  which  at  first 
oppresses  us."  Which,  being  interpreted,  means  that 
it  really  isn't  as  bad  as  it  looks. 

Neither  count  nor  king  began  the  building  of  the  t 
beautiful  chateau  of  Chenonceaux,  but  plain  Thomas 
de  Bohier,  Receiver-General  of  Finances  for  Nor- 
mandy, and  his  wife  Catherine.  Unfortunately  for 
the  Bohier s,  neither  of  them  lived  to  enjoy  their 
work,  and  later  Chenonceaux  became  a  royal  chateau, 
unique  in  that  the  taint  of  murder  never  darkened 
it.'  It  is  built  on  the  piles  and  massive  masonry  foun- 
dations of  an  old  mill,  and  makes  no  pretense  at  being 
a  fortified  dwelling.  One  tower,  evidently  preserved 
for  ornamental  purposes,  is  all  that  is  left  of  the 
days  when  a  fortified  castle  occupied  what  is  now  an 
open  court.  In  the  kingly  days  the  chateau  was 
the  favorite  residence  of  Catherine  de'  Medici,  who 
built  the  long  gallery  over  the  river  Cher,  a  most 

[219] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

unhappy  addition  architecturally,  though  it  possibly 
adds  to  the  picturesqueness  of  the  building. 

It  is  a  great  and  lofty  pile  with  graceful  lines, 
miniature  turrets  where  the  towers  would  have  been 
two  centuries  earlier,  and  gables  and  pinnacles  and 
dormers  at  unusual  and  unexpected  angles  that  give 
it  both  character  and  charm ;  and  its  location  on 
the  little  river  Cher  is  one  of  the  most  exquisite 
natural  settings  in  the  world  for  a  palatial  mansion. 
Wherever  you  stray  about  the  grounds,  something 
beautiful  appears,  like  the  magnificent  old  well  with 
its  elaborate,  wrought-iron  superstructure,  which  the 
corrosion  of  time  has  merely  softened  in  outline; 
or  a  splendid  old  tree,  wonderfully  duplicated  in 
Nature's  watery  mirror  of  the  moat.  Chenonceaux  is 
a  private  residence  again  now,  but  as  it  is  seldom 
occupied,  chateau  and  gardens  are  more  a  brilliant 
show-place  than  anything  else. 

And  now  we  come  to  one  of  the  purest  creations 
of  the  early  French  Renaissance,  the  chateau  of 
Azay-le-Rideau.  About  this  palace  in  miniature 
softly  flow  the  clear  waters  of  the  Httle  Indre,  span- 
gled with  great  yellow  and  white  lilies,  and  moistening 
the  roots  of  countless  brilliant  flowers  beside  the 
walls.  Here  the  old  idea  of  a  fortress-dwelling  is 
entirely  discarded,  and  only  such  of  its  forms  as  make 
for  beauty  have  been  kept — the  high-pitched  roof, 
the  turrets  and  the  buttressed  windows,  all  banded 
about  with  sculptured  frames,  like  delicate  embroid- 
ery.    What  diff'erence  does  it  make  if'  the  style  was 

[220] 


THE    PLAYGROUND    OF   THE    KINGS 

borrowed?  The  French  changed  and  improved  upon 
their  model,  revitalizing  it  and  making  it  distinctly 
a  national  system  of  which  they  can  well  be  proud. 

The  dim  and  silent  rooms  are  partly  filled  now 
with  such  art  objects  from  the  State  Museums  in 
Paris  as  belong  properly  in  old  chateaux,  among  them 
some  fine  tapestries.  I  particularly  wanted  a  picture 
of  a  seventeenth  century  Gobelin,  representing  the 
appearance  of  the  Cross  to  the  Emperor  Constan- 
tine.  Came  a  knocking  at  the  door.  "You  go  down- 
stairs and  see  who  it  is  wants  to  come  in,"  I  told 
the  caretaker.     "Don't  come  back  for  five  minutes." 

The  very  absence  of  history  only  adds  to  the  charm 
of  the  place:  pleasant  walks  that  wind  hither  and 
yon,  the  plash  of  falling  water,  the  songs  of  birds, 
the  perfume  of  the  flowers.  The  only  thing  that  hin- 
ders our  enjoyment  of  Azay-le-Rideau  is  the  thought 
that  it  is  a  museum  when  it  ought  to  be  a  home — 
with  all  its  radiant  daintiness,  its  joyous  freedom, 
its  delicate  sense  of  rhythm  and  proportion. 

But  these  are  only  a  handful.  Chateaux  are  scat- 
tered in  every  direction  throughout  this  smiling  val- 
ley. They  spell  the  growth  and  development  of  the 
nobility,  just  as  the  Romanesque  churches  spell  that 
of  the  Church,  and  the  Gothic  cathedrals  that  of  the 
people.  And  when  the  aristocracy  was  checked  in 
wealth,  growth  and  aspirations  by  the  Revolution, 
the  great  chateaux  ceased  to  be  homes,  and  became 
museums.  The  people  cut  off  their  own  religious 
growth  in  the  Terror,  and  now  that  atheistic  philoso- 

[321] 


FRANCE   FROM   SEA   TO    SEA 

phy  and  socialistic  cant  have  taken  the  place  of 
religion,  new  great  churches  in  France  are  as  impos- 
sible as  new  great  chateaux  of  the  noble  or  feudal 
type. 


[  222] 


XIX 

IN       BOURGES      AND      ANGEES 

KING  OF  BOURGES !  Not  such  a  bad  title, 
we  think,  as  we  look  out  over  the  courtly 
old  gray  city,  which  must  appear  to-day 
very  much  as  it  did  in  Charles  VII's  time,  with  its 
great  and  beautiful  cathedral  towering  over  it,  a 
beneficent  white  guardian.  Perhaps  the  sluggard 
Charles  thought  so,  too,  as  he  idled  here  in  the  seat 
of  his  southern  government  and  in  Touraine.  Better 
than  a  struggle  for  Paris,  anyway,  where  the  wolfish 
people  of  his  kingdom  were  starving,  fighting,  dying ; 
the  city  itself  in  the  hands  of  the  English  and  their 
Burgundian  allies.  Strange  that  such  a  man  as 
Charles  should  command  such  service  as  to  gain  him 
the  title  of  the  "Well-Served." 

One  who  served  him  well  was  the  merchant  prince 
of  Bourges,  Jacques  Coeur,  whom  Charles  betrayed 
and  robbed  as  cheerfully  as  he  deserted  Jeanne  d'Arc. 
The  Rothschild  of  the  fifteenth  century,  Coeur  pos- 
sessed the  most  colossal  fortune  ever  amassed  by  a 
private  Frenchman  up  to  that  time.  His  house  at 
Bourges  was  exceptionally  magnificent,  and  remains 
to  this  day  one  of  the  finest  monuments  of  the  Mid- 

[223] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

die  Ages.  The  rear  view  is  the  most  commanding, 
the  two  big  Roman  towers  melting  into  the  octagonal 
towers  and  main  walls  of  the  structure  as  naturally 
as  if  the  architect  had  designed  them,  instead  of 
taking  them  ready  to  hand  and  making  the  house 
fit  them.  The  round-cornered  chimneys,  with  ele- 
gant fretted  tops,  the  little  turrets  and  finials,  the 
gargoyles,  the  odd  windows,  all  leave  an  ineradicable 
impression  of  taste  and  boundless  expenditure. 

In  front,  the  house  is  long,  low,  and  far-flung, 
covered  with  stucco  where  it  is  not  of  cut  stone ;  and 
in  places,  as  around  the  doorway,  elaborately  carved. 
Above  the  entrance,  from  two  false  windows,  carven 
servants  lean  out,  watching  for  their  returning  mas- 
ter. The  great  oaken  door,  dark  with  age,  has  a 
delicate  iron  handle,  in  the  form  of  a  canopied  choir- 
stall;  and  everywhere  the  boltheads  are  hearts — 
coeur  means  heart  in  French.  In  the  place  before 
the  house  is  a  queer,  womanish-looking  statue  of 
Jacques  himself,  in  a  sort  of  Turkish  costume,  prob- 
ably because  after  bis  disgrace  and  exile  he  led  the 
navy  of  Pope  Calixtus  III  against  the  Turk. 

The  courtyard  rivals  the  exterior  of  the  house 
for  richness  and  beauty,  especially  in  its  gracefully 
carved  octagonal  stair-towers,  and  the  quaint  figures 
and  medallions  carved  upon  pillar  and  wall.  Jacques' 
coat-of-arms — hearts  and  scallop-shells — is  every- 
where, and  the  character  of  the  man  himself  is  empha- 
sized by  his  punning  motto :  "To  brave  hearts  nothing 

is  impossible."   Especially  effective  is  the  entrance  to. 

[224] 


IN    BOURGES   AND   ANGERS 

the  chapel  stair  from  the  court,  with  three  sets  of 
carved  portrait  panels.  In  the  main  relief,  Madame 
Jacques  Coeur  goes  to  mass,  a  page  pointing  the 
way.  Behind  comes  her  dame  d'honneur,  in  the  quaint 
fifteenth  century  costume ;  and  last  of  all  a  maid. 

In  the  Place  Berry,  behind  the  palace  of  Jacques 
Coeur,  is  a  very  realistic  statue  of  Louis  XI,  the  un-  |\ 
natural  son  who  climbed  to  the  throne  over  the 
dead  body  of  his  father,  Charles  VII.  If  Dauphin 
Louis  did  not  actually  poison  him,  as  Charles  and 
others  at  the  time  believed,  at  least  he  frightened 
him  into  starvation.  The  face  is  indelibly  stamped 
with  craft.  The  heavy-lidded  eyes  peer  at  you  with 
the  false  amiability  of  a  cat's  when  it  plays  with  \ 
a  mouse;  the  hand  partly  hides  the  cruel,  sensual 
mouth.  The  half-squatting  posture  takes  you  back 
to  the  donjon  at  Loches,  and  again  you  see  him  pray 
and  smile,  and  tell  Tristan,  "Agitate  his  Eminence 
further." 

Louis  first  saw  the  light — while  his  father  was 
"King  of  Bourges" — in  another  pleasing  old  man- 
sion, the  Hotel  Lallement,  built  by  another  great 
merchant  of  Bourges.  The  last  king  of  the  old  feu- 
dal regime,  Louis  was  also  still  more  truly  the*' 
first  king  of  the  new  era,  in  which  pohtical  tact  took 
the  place  of  brute  force.  His  personal  idea  of 
diplomacy  was  expressed  in  his  own  phrase,  "He  who 
has  success,  has  honor."  How  far  has  the  world 
progressed  in  four  centuries  .f' 

The  Cathedral,  dating  from  the  end  of  the  twelfth 

[  225  ] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

to  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century,  though 
the  most  southern  of  all  the  great  Gothic  churches 
of  France,  is  still  pure  Gothic.  It  has  no  transepts, 
and  the  thrust  of  the  heavy  vaulting  of  the  long 
flank  of  nave  and  choir  is  carried  by  a  perfect  forest 
of  flying  buttresses.  They  slant  downward  at  a 
very  sharp  angle,  and  are  so  slender  they  look  like 
spars.  No  fleche  makes  the  cathedral  ludicrous. 
Probably  this  is  more  good  luck  than  judgment. 

The  first  impression  the  cathedral  makes  upon 
you,  on  entering,  is  one  of  astonishment  at  its  size. 
The  immensely  lofty  main  columns,  without  break  or 
interruption,  form  a  stately  avenue  leading  straight 
into  the  gleaming  semi-circle  of  the  apse,  glorious 
with  some  of  the  finest  stained  glass  in  all  France. 
The  eff^ect  without  transepts  is  so  complete  and 
satisfying  that  you  wonder  it  has  not  been  more  gen- 
erally imitated. 

In  France  architecture  is  not  confined  to  cathe- 
drals alone;  everywhere  the  trees  are  shaped.  In 
Bourges  they  seem  to  make  a  specialty  of  a  peculiar 
screen  pattern,  so  dense  and  regular  it  might  well 
be  the  work  of  a  master  carpenter.  The  public 
gardens  alongside  the  cathedral  are  bordered  by 
such  trees,  and  are  beautifully  laid  out  in  shady 
walks,  edged  with  roses  and  charming  old-fashioned 
flowers.  The  rose-beds  are  most  appealing,  espe- 
cially the  slim  little  trees,  full  of  exquisite  blooms, 
delicate  in  both  color  and  perfume.  But  fair  and 
delicate  as  the  roses  are,  they  were  no  fairer  nor 

[  226  ] 


IN   BOURGES   AND    ANGERS 

sweeter  than  a  bevy  of  little  girls  in,  their  confir- 
mation dresses  of  virginal  white,  who  made  an  un- 
forgetable  picture  as  they  streamed  out  from  the 
gray  old  minster  portals  into  the  dazzling  sunshine, 
after  "assisting"  at  the  solemn  festival  of  the  Corpus 
Christi,  with  all  its  ecclesiastical  pomp  of  robes  and 
lights  and  grand  music. 

To  the  west  of  Touraine  lies  the  province  of  Anjou, 
whose  fierce  Counts  were  always  striving  to  win  and 
to  keep  the  fair  playground.  Fulks  they  were,  and 
Geoff'roys,  all  labeled— Fulk  the  Red,  Fulk  the  Black, 
Fulk  the  Cross-Looking;  and  FuDc  the  Good  and 
Fulk,  King  of  Jerusalem,  to  offset  in  a  measure  the 
others.  One  Geoffroy  gave  England  a  long  line 
of  kings,  her  Plantagenet  family.  Of  these  Counts, 
some  were  good,  some  were  bad ;  but  there  never  was 
a  fool,  or  a  coward,  or  a  do-nothing  among  them, 
according  to  Freeman. 

Their  capital.  Angers,  stands  on  both  sides  of  the 
river  Maine,  a  tributary  of  the  Loire,  but  the  grim 
castle  high  above  holds  no  memories  of  the  Fulks, 
since  it  dates  only  from  the  thirteenth  century.  It 
is  built  in  the  form  of  a  huge  pentagon,  upon  a  solid 
rock  foundation,  and  though  many  of  its  seventeen 
towers  have  been  razed,  and  its  great  moat  filled  up 
on  one  side  to  make  a  fine  new  boulevard,  it  is  still 
one  of  the  most  imposing  feudal  strongholds  in  exist- 
ence. Its  most  absorbing  memories  are  of  that  clever 
and  ambitious  woman,  Yolande  of  Aragon,  Duchess 

[  2.2^  ] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

of  Anjou,  who  strove  so  valiantly  for  the  rights 
and  preferment  of  her  son  Rene,  Due  d' Anjou  and 
Comte  de  Provence — besides  a  good  many  other 
things. 

Opposite  the  southern  angle  of  the  chateau  is  the 
great  bronze  statue  of  Rene  by  Jean-Pierre  David, 
better  known  as  David  d' Angers,  since  this  was  his 
native  town.  The  unfortunate  prince  is  portrayed 
in  tilting  armor,  and  crowned  with  a  wreath  of 
flowers.  The  whole  effect  is  weak,  but  that  may  be 
David's  realism,  which  he  sometimes  allowed  to  run 
away  with  him.  Rene  was  more  efficient  in  the  peace- 
ful pursuits  of  an  artistic  and  literary  nature,  so 
characteristic  of  his  best-loved  province  of  Provence, 
than  in  the  warlike  ones  necessary  for  success  in 
his  age,  and  he  died  stripped  of  most  of  his  pos- 
sessions. 

The  statuettes  around  the  pedestal  are  much  more 
vigorous,  and  no  doubt  faithfully  portray  the  char- 
acter of  each  person,  all  men — fierce  Fulks  and  oth- 
ers— except  three,  Isabelle  de  Lorraine,  Jeanne  de 
Laval,  Rene's  wives,  and  his  courageous  daughter 
Margaret,  the  unhappy  Queen  of  England.  How 
much  the  lioness  at  bay  David  made  her :  shielding 
her  little  son,  Prince  Edward,  with  a  motherly  arm, 
and  ready  with  naked  sword  for  traitor  or  open  foe. 

Splendidly  indeed  those  counts  of  the  Middle  Ages 
defended  themselves,  with  sheer,  plaio  walls  and 
towers  and  moats.  The  entrance  is  partly  by  cause- 
way above  the  fosse — filled,  in  time  of  need,  by  the 

[228] 


IN   BOURGES   AND    ANGERS 

waters  of  the  Maine — and  partly  by  drawbridge  and 
portcullis  in  the  massive  wall.  In  recent  times — up 
to  1856 — the  castle  was  used  as  a  prison,  and  now 
is  a  depot  for  arms  and  powder.  The  only  objects 
of  any  importance  left  are  the  fifteenth  century 
chapel,  built  by  Rene's  mother,,  and  the  httle  chateau, 
where  it  was  said  he  was  born.  The  latter  has  re- 
cently been  entirely  reconstructed,  and  both  are 
inaccessible. 

Black  Angers  the  city  was  called  in  the  old  times ; 
whether  from  the  deeds  of  black  tyrants,  or  dark 
and  narrow  streets,  or  the  great  slate  quarries  in 
the  vicinity,  who  knows?  But  there  is  nothing  black 
about  the  city  now,  save  the  castle.  Angers  is  one 
of  the  brightest,  cleanest,  most  attractive  cities  north 
of  the  Loire,  since  the  walls  were  swept  away  in  the 
nineteenth  century.  It  has  some  of  the  finest  old 
timbered  houses  we  found  anywhere  In  France,  be- 
sides rich  and  elaborate  mansions  of  the  later  Renais- 
sance days.  The  Archbishop's  Palace,  which  stands 
where,  ages  ago,  the  Fulks  had  their  mighty  castle, 
has  been  done  over  by  the  indefatigable  Viollet-le- 
Duc,  who  made  It  a  splendid  example  of  a  great 
medieval  mansion.  But  one  thing  he  forgot  to  do : 
he  couldn't,  or  at  least  he  didn't,  take  the  gloss  off — 
it  looks  distressingly  new.  The  city's  museums,  how- 
ever, are  housed  in  ancient  buildings  that  are  true 
works  of  art  in  themselves,  and  so  make  the  collec- 
tions all  the  more  effective.     Most  appealing  of  all 

is   that  lonely   tower   of  the   former   ramparts,   the 

[229] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 


Haute  Chaine  Tour — High  Chain  Tower — above  the 
bridge  of  the  same  name.  It  is  practically  the  last 
surviving  remnant  of  the  old  fortifications. 

The  noble  Tour  St.  Aubin  is  a  relic  of  a  splendid 
abbey  of  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  centuries,  a  perfect 
example  of  the  transitional,  with  its  slightly  pointed 
arches  and  peculiar  turrets.  Across  the  street,  in 
the  courtyard  of  the  Prefecture,  are  the  remains  of 
the  twelfth  century  cloisters  of  the  abbe}'^,  a  treasure 
long  hidden  in  a  later  wall,  and  discovered  only  in 
1836.  There  are  several  bays  of  Romanesque  arches 
which  move  you  strangely  by  their  grotesqueness  of 
capitals  and  moldings  full  of  glaring  or  contorted 
dragons,  lions,  toads,  and  other  creatures  the  med- 
ieval sculptor  made  pets  of  in  stone.  Best  of  all 
is  a  rare  fragment  of  twelfth  century  fresco,  now 
carefully  covered  by  glass,  representing  David's 
victory  over  Goliath. 

Even  more  fascinating  is  the  arch  uncovered  in 
the  very  modern  council-room.  The  sculpture  is  an 
allegory  depicting  the  defeat  of  Vice  by  Virtue.  It 
is  a  wonderful  thing;  but  more  wonderful  it  is  that 
any  man  or  set  of  men  would  cover  up  such  a  work 
of  art.  Seventeenth  century  builders  buried  it  behind 
a  solid  wall.  Another  beautiful  fragment  is  the  ruin 
of  the  ancient  abbey  church  of  Toussaint. 

As  the  Romanesque  ^tyle  spread  over  Gaul  each 
district  molded  it  to  the  requirement  of  its  own  tastes 
— quite  often  the  materials  had  a  good  deal  to  do 
with  this  evolution — and  in  Anjou  we  find  a  distinct 

[230] 


IN   BOURGES   AND    ANGERS 


character,  not  so  perfect  nor  so  beautiful  as  that 
of  Auvergne,  however.  The  fa9ade  of  the  Cathedral 
of  St.  Maurice,  in  Angers,  is  a  mixture  of  Roman- 
esque and  sixteenth  century  Gothic,  without  especial  /) 
character.  But  inside  we  find  the  typically  wide 
Angevin  nave  without  aisles,  which  has  a  certain 
bare  effect — we  miss  the  decorative  force  and  intent 
of  pillars  or  piers.  Heroic  caryatids  support  the  fan- 
cifully carved  organ  loft,  and  the  church  is  full 
of  what  the  French,  for  want  of  a  term  that  would 
express  the  idea  more  vaguely,  call  objets  d'art. 
One  of  them  is  the  little  green  font  or  basin,  said 
to  have  been  a  gift  of  Rene.  It  looks  amazingly 
like  a  huge  cake  of  green  soap  hollowed  out  on  top. 
The  most  important  features,  however,  are  the  gor- 
geous and  ancient  stained-glass  windows  and  some 
handsome  tapestries. 

Across  the  river,  the  old  church  of  Trinite  affords 
still  further  illustration  of  the  Angevin  style,  and 
of  what  a  concierge  ought  to  be:  a  demure,  smiling 
little  old  woman,  silently  knitting,  and  allowing  the 
visitor  to  study  the  church  at  leisure. 

Dog-power  is  much  in  evidence  in  Angers ;  woman- 
power,  too.  Yet  the  women  of  Anjou  are  exceedingly 
attractive,  and  the  hard  work  they  do  seems  not  to 
affect  either  their  good  looks,  their  tempers  or  their 
fine  physiques. 

Not  far  from  Angers  stand  the  gaunt  ruins  of; 
Bluebeard's  blood-stained  castle.  But  the  gentle- 1 
man  killed  no  inquisitive  wives.     I  don't  know  how 

[231] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

the  story  was  twisted.  History  holds  no  wilder  tale 
than  that  of  this  monster,  Gilles  de  Laval  by  name, 
a  gallant  and  noble  gentleman,  who  turned  devil- 
worshiper,  sacrificing  hundreds  of  little  children 
upon  his  altars  to  Satan.  When  he  was  finally  appre- 
hended, and  confessed,  the  courtyards  of  his  castles 
were  full  of  the  half -burned  bones  of  his  youthful 
victims. 

Straight  on  west,  across  the  Breton  hjorder,  is 
the  busy  city  of  Nantes,  the  largest  in  Brittany, 
with  over  one  hundred  thousand  inhabitants.  It  is 
one  of  the  most  delightful  provincial  capitals  in 
France,  and  its  many  bridges — the  Loire  splits  into 
six  streams  here,  and  they  are  not  the  only  rivers 
in  Nantes,  either — and  the  forests  of  masts  and 
chimneys  along  the  river,  only  make  its  color  and 
contrast  stronger.  Somehow  Nantes  to-day  makes 
no  Breton  appeal  whatever.  We  think  of  it  only 
as  French.  But  it  is  not  its  present  quality  that 
attracts  us  so  much  as  its  memories  of  the  final 
struggle  of  the  Bretons  to  maintain  their  indepen- 
dence, under  Duke  Francis  II  and  under  his  little 
daughter,  the  Duchess  Anne. 

These  memories  cluster  thickest  about  the  chateau, 
the  tenth  century  fortress  largely  rebuilt  by  these 
two.  Poor  little  twelve-year-old  orphan  and  ruler, 
harassed  and  tormented  on  every  hand!  Eager  for 
her  people's  welfare,  and  wise  beyond  her  years,  at 
fifteen  she  consented  to  marry  Charles  VIII  of 
France,  and,  later,  Louis  XII,  his  successor,  arrang- 
I  [  232  ] 


IN   BOURGES   AND    ANGERS 

ing  that  the  independence  of  her  beloved  Brittany 
was  to  continue.  But  the  end  was  inevitable,  and 
Brittany  was  united  to  the  crown  in  the  succeeding 
reign  of  Francis  I  of  France,  who  married  Louis 
and  Anne's  daughter,  Claude.  The  castle  at  Nantes, 
in  which  you  may  still  see  the  beautiful  logisy  be- 
came a  state  prison,  and  to-day  is  an  artillery  head- 
quarters. What  a  pity  that  a  structure  so  full 
of  suggestion  had  to  be  turned  over  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  an  unwashed  horde  of  conscripts ! 


[^33] 


XX 


IN       OLD       BRITTANY 


ALTHOUGH  Brittany  has  no  lack  of  either^ 
y^ne    makes    the    same    appeal    as    in    other/ 
^^-good    architecture   or   fine   scenery,   neitheii/ 
provinces,  because  of  the  attraction  of  the  people. 
Their   homes,   their   customs,   their   costumes,   their 
astonishing  speech,  their   sea-soaked  religion,  their 
dark  and  somber  legends,  have   amazing  power  to 
draw  and  to  hold  the  sympathies  of  the  visitor.     The 
Bretons  are  descendants  of  Celts  who  came  over  from 
Great  Britain,  driven  thence  by  Angles  and  Saxons 
about  the  same  time  the  Germanic  tribes  were  pour- 
ing into   France   in   the   northeast.      As   a   French 
writer  of  to-day  quaintly  puts   it,  "They  imposed 
their  tongue  and  their  name  upon  the  district.     It 
became  Brittany." 

Before  that  time,  even  before  the  coming  of  the 
Romans,  the  most  powerful  tribe  along  the  Atlantic 
coast  was  the  Venetii,  who  inhabited  the  district  now 
called  the  Morbihan,  with  Vannes  as  their  chief  town. 
It  is  the  capital  of  the  Departement  of  the  Morbihan 
to-day,  and  its  people  are  still  seafarers.  Their  har- 
bor is  unusual,  simply  a  mile  of  the  river  Vannes, 

[234] 


IN    OLD    BRITTANY 


with  little  steamers  and  sailing  craft  ceaselessly  com- 
ing and  going.  Behind,  the  town  mounts  up  the 
hill,  with  pointed  roofs  of  red  and  moss-grown  tiles, 
to  the  cathedral  crowning  the  gentle  height,  and 
the  old  walls  still  girdle  it  with  their  towers  and 
bastions. 

Four  drizzly,  dreary  days  we  spent  in  Vannes  be- 
fore it  was  possible  to  do  much  with  a  camera.  We 
had  seen  only  the  most  ordinary,  everyday  costumes, 
the  most  stolid-looking  people.  Then,  unexpectedly, 
on  a  Tuesday  morning,  idly  looking  from  our  win- 
dow, we  saw  a  colorful  little  procession  descending 
briskly  from  the  Hotel  de  Ville  and  going  in  the 
direction  of  the  Cathedral.  We  remembered — Tues- 
day is  one  of  the  famous  marriage  days ;  we  would 
got  to  the  Cathedral.  On  the  way,  we  passed  a  homey 
little  market-in-a-wheelbarrow,  attended  by  two 
women,  one  knitting,  the  other  nursing  her  baby. 
Throughout  the  province  you  see  many  women  with 
wheelbarrows ;  more  than  anywhere  else  in  France. 
A  Breton  song  expresses  woman's  position  perfectly 
in  telling  how  the  peasant  loves  his  wife — and  would 
rather  see  her  die  than  one  of  his  "beefs."  Hard 
philosophy,  perhaps ;  but  a  wife  is  easily  had  in 
Brittany,  and  cattle  cost  money. 

The  thirteenth  century  Gothic  Cathedral  is  another 
of  those  countless  French  rehgious  edifices  that  have 
passed  through  the  hands  of  the  restorer  and  emerged 
hybrids.  Two  weddings  were  there  ahead  of  us,  and 
I  hastened  back  into  the  street  to  take  an  advan- 

[  235  ] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

tageous  position.  At  last,  "Here  comes  the  bride!" 
The  strains  of  Lohengrin  did  not  usher  her  forth 
from  the  sacred  precincts,  but  the  gorgeous  verger, 
in  frogs  and  braid  and  red  whiskers,  did.  This  was 
a  wedding  of  the  more  prosperous  folk,  the  groom 
not  in  native  costume.  The  bride,  however,  made 
a  very  pretty  sight  in  her  peasant  garb,  with  a 
hymeneal  string  of  orange-blossoms  about  her  cap 
and  shoulders  and  falling  to  her  feet. 

The  second  wedding  party  was  so  long  coming 
out  that,  to  take  advantage  of  the  weak  sunlight, 
I  hurried  down  a  side  street  to  capture  Vannes  and 
his  wife — ^busts  of  some  old  burgher  and  his  fat 
spouse,  quaint  grotesques  upon  humanity,  who  for 
centuries  have  leaned  out  from  the  corner  of  a  house 
above  the  narrow  sidewalk  to  gaze  down  upon  the 
passers-by.  Suddenly  we  heard  the  queerest  music. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  in  France  somebody  was 
skirling  the  pipes.''  A  few  moments  later  we  reached 
the  Cathedral  again,  breathless,  and  there  in  the  open 
street  the  second  wedding  party  was  having  a  dance 
to  the  music  of  the  hinious,  native  pipes. 

All  the  women  were  in  costume,  the  bride  in  a  soft 
green,  brocaded  silk,  her  orange-blossom  strings  fly- 
ing; the  others  in  somber  black  broadcloth  banded 
with  velvet,  but  relieved  by  aprons  of  richly  embroid- 
ered silks.  The  gaunt  pipers  wore  rusty  shovel  hats 
with  huge  buckles,  and  "homeward-bound"  velvet 
strings  flopping  behind,  loose  jumpers  and  dark 
breeches  that  did  not  conceal  the  bare  ankles  above 

[22,6] 


IN    OLD    BRITTANY 


their  wooden  shoes.  They  were  just  finishing  as  I 
arrived,  and  off  down  the  street  started  the  sonneurs. 
One  and  all  followed,  myself  included.  The  pipes 
whistled  and  squealed,  the  children  shouted,  the  wed- 
ding guests  laughed  and  talked,  windows  opened  at 
every  step,  the  American  with  the  camera  was  chaffed 
good-naturedly.  On  and  on  we  went,  now  down  a 
tiny  alley,  now  along  the  water-front,  past  the  silent 
ships  at  the  docks,  through  the  ancient  gate  and  on 
up  the  hill,  winding  around  to  the  street  above  the 
river,  and  stopping  at  last  before  the  bride's  home. 
Galudec  and  Recevrec  began  to  pipe  again,  and 
once  more  everybody  danced.  The  wife  of  an  army 
officer  who  lived  next  door  courteously  offered  me  her 
window  to  stand  in,  so  I  could  photograph  down  upon 
the  dancers.  It  was  a  beautiful  and  spontaneous  ex- 
pression of  simple  gaiety  and  happiness.  The  guests, 
young  and  old,  clasped  hands  with  the  bride  and 
groom  and  with  each  other,  forming  a  huge  circle,  as 
if  for  ring-around-a-rosy.  It  reminded  me  strongly 
of  the  wonderful  Sardanas  of  the  Catalunians  in 
Barcelona.  Like  the  Sardanas,  this  is  a  folk  dance ; 
the  officer's  wife  told  me  it  was  believed  to  have  had 
a  Druidic  origin,  as  a  festival  of  public  rejoicing. 
Later  it  came  to  be  a  hymeneal  dance.  After  the 
dancing  had  put  everybody  out  of  breath,  guests 
and  pipers  all  filed  into  the  house — I  was  invited, 
too — and  a  great  clink  of  glasses  and  clatter  of  plates 
followed  me  on  my  way.  I  wonder  still  why  I  did 
not  accept  that  hearty,  simple  invitation. 

[237] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

%^:J  Of  the  megalithic  monuments  with  which  France 
V^'  abounds,  the  great  majority,  and  the  most  remark- 
able ones,  are  in  Brittany.  A  number  are  near  the 
little  town  of  Locmariaquer,  which  in  itself  is  well 
-"^C  worth  a  visit.  There  is  no  railroad,  but  it  is  a 
pleasant  trip  by  boat  from  Vannes,  through  the 
Gulf  of  the  Morbihan — ^Little  Sea — a  great,  land- 
locked harbor,  eight  miles  long  by  fifteen  wide,  full 
of  little  islets,  forty  or  fifty  of  which  are  inhabited. 
We  went  down  one  morning  on  the  eight  o'clock  boat. 
At  three  we  were  slowly  prowling  our  way  back  to 
the  wharf,  when  the  afternoon  boat  came  in — it  leaves 
at  four.  We  were  surprised  to  see  quite  a  crowd 
land — we  did  not  know  there  were  sleeping  accom- 
modations in  town  for  so  many.  They  rushed  ashore, 
sng-pped  up  the  boy  guides,  and  when  the  whistle 
blew  an  hour  later  were  all  on  board,  safe  but 
breathless.  Had  they  seen  the  monuments?  Indeed 
they  had — well — not — quite  all.  Their  satisfaction 
was  as  clear  as  their  notion  of  what  they  had  seen 
was  vague.  Monuments  and  town  cover,  I  should 
say,  about  two  square  miles. 

To  be  sure,  a  menhir — even  if  it  be  a  sixty-seven- 
foot  fallen  giant,  in  four  pieces — a  tumulus,  and  a 
few  dolmens  scattered  over  a  barren  moor,  may  not 
appeal  especially  to  the  casual  traveler.  To  such 
I  would  recommend  Carnac,  five  miles  and  a  half 
away,  and  better  reached  from  Auray.  There  the 
menhirs  make  more  show,  two  thousand  of  them, 
stretching  away  in  long,  silent  lines. 

[238] 


IN    OLD    BRITTANY 


France  has  no  more  fascinating  old  houses  than 
at  Locmariaquer,  built  of  irregular  stones,  with 
thick,  thatched  roofs.  Vines  are  trained  up  like 
trees  over  the  doorway,  and  the  thatch  is  cut  away 
in  neat  archways  over  upper  windows  and  doors. 
Pigs  are  housed,  as  well  as  their  owners,  and  there 
seems  little  difference  in  the  cleanliness  of  the  two 
domiciles.  We  were  anxious  to  examine  a  Breton 
interior,  especially  the  bed,  and  we  could  see  one 
through  an  open  door.  But  the  earthen  floor  was 
so  covered  with  litter  we  hesitated  to  enter.  Besides, 
I  could  not  understand  a  word  the  housewife  said, 
and  her  attitude  was  not  inviting.  Perhaps  what 
she  said  was  not  so  bad  as  it  sounded — the  Breton 
tongue  is  a  harsh  and  primitive  speech,  very  like 
Welsh  in  sound  and  appearance.  In  many  parts  of 
the  province  the  visitor  who  speaks  only  French  finds 
it  difficult  to  make  himself  understood. 

Small  as  the  town  is,  it  has  a  very  good  twelfth 
century  church.  Much  is  being  written  about  the 
Breton  being  more  religious  than  his  fellow  coun- 
trymen. If  pardons  and  pilgrimages  mean  religion 
— yes.  Otherwise,  we  noted  no  perceptible  differ- 
ence: no  more  people  praying  in  the  churches,  no 
larger  congregations.  But  the  faith  of  the  province 
— a  prey  to  the  Biscayne  gales  and  the  Channel 
storms — is  sadder  than  the  religion  of  more  sheltered 
regions.  For  if  the  Bretons  live  by  the  harvest  of 
the  sea,  what  in  its  turn  does  the  sea  harvest?  In 
this  little  church  of  Locmariaquer,  as  in  many  an- 

[239] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

other,  day  and  night  there  stands  a  bier,  waiting 
for  what  the  sea  may  harvest.  How  could  men  who 
daily  wait  their  turn  upon  it,  and  women  who  wait 
to  see  their  loved  ones  there,  have  anything  but  a 
sad  religion? 

Off  the  beaten  track,  to  the  north  of  Vannes,  but 
well  worth  the  trouble  of  finding,  is  the  twelfth 
century  chateau  of  Josselin,  practically  rebuilt  in 
the  seventeenth  century.  The  present  owner,  the 
Due  de  Rohan,  a  descendant  of  the  ancient  and 
illustrious  family  of  that  name,  graciously  permits 
inspection  by  visitors. 

Kemper,  in  Breton,  signifies  to  flow  together;  and 
the  beautiful  city  of  Quimper  sits  in  a  delightful 
valley  at  the  confluence  of  the  little  rivers  Odet  and 
Steir.  Its  chief  glory  is  its  Cathedral,  one  of  the 
finest  Gothic  edifices  in  Brittany ;  and  though  its 
building  extended  over  a  period  of  almost  three 
centuries,  its  architects  had  the  common  sense  and 
taste  to  keep  it  to  the  original  plans.  Even  the  nine- 
teenth century  spires  are  an  intelligent  reproduction 
of  the  Gothic.  They  are  due  to  the  townf oik's 
being  willing  to  be  taxed  a  sou  a  pound  on  all  butter 
brought  to  market. 

The  ground  plan,  though  peculiar,  is  not  unique. 

The  choir  leans   considerably   to  the  left,   and  the 

junction  with  the  transepts  is  awkward.     It  is  said 

this   failure   to   make   nave   and   choir  parallel   was 

deliberate — to  show  the  bending  of  the  head  of  Christ 

while  in  agony  on  the  cross. 

[240] 


IN    OLD    BRITTANY 


In  one  room  of  the  Quimper  Museum  of  Archae- 
ology is  an  exceedingly  instructive  exhibit  of  the 
home  life  of  the  people — a  farmhouse  interior,  said 
to  be  typical  of  the  country.  At  one  side  is  a  massive 
peasant  loom,  for  weaving  the  flax  that  mother  spins 
by  the  fire  while  she  rocks  the  cradle.  In  a  high- 
backed  settle  sits  mademoiselle  with  her  fiance,  while 
beside  them  her  younger  sister  industriously  churns 
and  listens.  Opposite,  father  smokes  comfortably, 
perhaps  thinking  of  bed.  It  is  right  before  him,  a 
carved  closet  aff'air,  that  shuts  up  as  tight  as  any 
New  York  apartment. 

Every  district  outside  the  greater  centers  has  its 
own  peculiarities  of  costume,  seen  to  best  advantage 
at  the  great  pardons,  when  the  people  troop  in 
in  vast  crowds,  in  carts,  on  foot,  by  train  and  boat. 
The  costumes  are  what  bring  most  strangers  to  the 
rather  dreary  little  town  of  Pont  I'Abbe,  at  the  ex- 
treme southwest  corner  of  Finistere.  Its  people  are 
a  strange  folk,  called  Bigoudens,  believed  to  be  the 
descendants  of  a  race  even  farther  back  in  the  remote 
past  than  the  Celts. 

Practically  all  the  Bigouden  women  wear  the 
higouden,  a  sort  of  woven-straw  casque,  with  black 
ear-muffs,  tied  with  a  broad  silk  or  lawn  sash.  That 
is  as  nearly  as  I  can  describe  it.  Even  the  children 
wear  it ;  the  tinier  and  the  fatter  they  are,  the  droller 
is  their  expression. 

The  Breton  pardon  is  theoretically  a  peni- 
tential service  to  which  the  people  come  to  be  par- 

[241  j 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

doned  of  their  sins,  and  in  parts  of  Brittany  in 
the  old  days  the  pardons  were  for  animals  and  fowls 
as  well  as  for  human  beings.  There  is  something 
inexpressibly  touching  about  the  devotion  of  these 
ignorant  peasants,  who  often  come  from  great  dis- 
tances to  take  part  in  the  ceremony.  Their  faith 
is  more  than  half  superstitious;  their  very  observ- 
ance of  the  rites  of  the  Church  is  tinctured  with 
paganism.  And  it  is  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion 
that  calls  forth  the  exquisite  costumes,  many  of  them 
heirlooms  of  long-dead  generations. 

The  church  cannot  begin  to  accommodate  the 
eager  hundreds.  They  fill  the  square  with  their 
brilliant  colors  and  quaint  headdresses.  Nor  is  there 
any  lack  of  devotion.  What  woman,  not  utterly  con- 
secrated for  the  moment,  would  think  of  dropping 
to  her  knees,  in  a  dusty  square,  to  pray  before  the 
multitude,  with  childlike  frankness,  often  aloud,  and 
without  ever  a  thought  of  the  rich  and  costly  clothes 
she  wears?  Down  in  the  dust  they  go,  here  one, 
there  a  group  together,  farther  away  a  score  or 
more. 

No  sooner  was  I  out  of  the  crowd  than  a  toothless 
female  ragbag  came  whining  up,  demanding  alms  of 
me,  for  the  third  time  in  an  hour.  "I  have  given 
you  money  twice,"  I  reminded  her.  "Then  give  again 
for  the  love  of  the  Christ  who  is  the  patron  of  beg- 
gars," she  answered  promptly.  Beggars  are  a  fea- 
ture  of  the  pardons   all   over   Brittany,   and   their 

cry,  "Pay  the  right  of  the  poor!"  is  a  demand,  not 

[242] 


IN    OLD   BRITTANY 


a  request.  At  the  Pardon  of  the  Sea,  at  La  Palude, 
in  fact  they  behave  Hke  extortioners ;  but  they  may 
only  beg  thus  on  the  day  of  the  pardon — the  next 
they  have  vanished  as  mysteriously  as  they  appeared. 

The  only  httle  Bigouden  at  the  pardon  who  did 
not  wear  the  complete  bigouden — she  only  wore  the 
coif — was  a  tiny  baby.  Papa  explained  that  Yvonne 
really  hadn't  enough  hair  yet  to  make  it  practical. 
He  was  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  while  his 
wife  was  in  it,  worshiping.  Indeed,  in  all  that  con- 
course of  worshipers  I  did  not  count  more  than  half 
a  dozen  men ;  the  majority  of  the  devotees  were  girls, 
from  babies  to  well-grown  young  women  who  were 
ready  to  be  married.  A  side  issue  of  the  pardon 
is  a  marriage  mart.  Those  girls  who  wish  to  find 
husbands  remain  out  of  the  crowd,  and  line  up 
against  the  fence  of  the  churchyard,  to  be  inspected 
by  whatever  swain  may  be  of  like  mind.  Had  three 
German  gentlemen,  who  also  leaned  against  the  fence, 
known  why  the  male  Bigouden s  laughed  at  them,  they 
would  probably  have  beaten  a  speedy  retreat. 

The  harvest  of  the  sea  is  the  main  support  of 
Brittany — sardines  along  the  shore,  and  the  larger 
fish  on  the  Banks  and  as  far  away  even  as  Iceland. 
It  is  more  than  a  mere  prosperous  industry — it  is 
the  Breton's  reason  for  being,  and  three-quarters  of 
the  sailors  in  the  French  navy  to-day  are  Bretons 
who  have  served  their  apprenticeship  in  that  stern 
and  dangerous  calling.  The  odorous,  prosperous 
town  of  Douarnenez,  out  almost  at  the  end  of  Brit- 

[  243  ] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

tany,  is  one  of  the  principal  homes  of  the  "toilers 
of  the  sea,"  and  carries  off  first  honors  for  its  sar- 
dine fisheries.  When  the  majority  of  the  fleet  lies 
here  at  anchor,  its  dark-brown  hulls  and  blue  nets 
contrasting  with  the  shining  sea,  the  spectacle  is 
well  worth  going  far  to  behold. 

Throughout  France,  especially  in  Brittany,  are 
many  simple  crosses  by  the  wayside,  of  wood  or  iron 
or  stone,  where  the  peasants  or  fisher  folk  invoke 
their  God.  There  are  also  elaborate  calvaries,  one 
of  the  most  noted  in  the  churchyard  of  the  little 
village  of  Plougastel.  The  calvary  dates  from  160^, 
and  there  is  nothing  more  curious  in  the  province. 
The  Christ  is  shown  crucified  in  the  center,  the  two 
thieves  on  smaller  crosses,  and  the  easily  recognized 
small  figures  on  the  extra  arms  of  the  cross  and 
upon  the  pedestal  are  those  of  persons  connected 
with  the  Passion.  The  frieze  around  the  upper  sec- 
tion represents  the  Last  Supper,  the  washing  of  feet, 
the  flight  into  Egypt,  and  so  on. 

The  ragged  north  coast  of  Brittany  is  a  long 
series  of  bays  and  little  capes,  with  islands  like 
defensive  outposts  just  off  shore,  and  beside  being 
delightfully  scenic,  is  especially  rich  historically. 
The  town  of  St.  Brieuc  has  seen  its  share  of  fighting, 
and  the  austere  fa9ade  of  the  Cathedral  has  the  effect 
of  a  medieval  stronghold.  Indeed,  it  was  twice  used 
as  a  fortress — once  when  Constable  de  Clisson  was  be- 
sieged in  it,  again  when  he  was  the  besieger.  The 
most  noticeable  thing  about  its  interior  is  its  lack 

[244] 


IN    OLD   BRITTANY 


of  care.  Sacristans  seem  to  have  lost  interest  in 
sacred  buildings  since  they  have  ceased  to  be  the 
property  of  the  Church. 

The  clergy  before  the  Separation  may  not  have 
made  their  temple  a  den  of  thieves,  but  they  did 
allow  a  common  groggery  to  be  built  right  on  the 
Cathedral  walls  between  the  buttresses  much  like 
an  exterior  chapel.  And  as  if  that  sacrilege  were 
not  enough  in  itself,  the  proprietor  of  the  wine- 
shop has  decorated  his  walls  with  so-called  sacred 
pictures  and  portraits  of  ecclesiastical  dignitaries, 
to  give  the  place  a  specious  air  of  righteousness. 
It  is  the  same  story  down  one  whole  side:  shops, 
shops,  shops,  all  fast  to  the  wall.  Beside  the  apse 
the  Widow  Tourmel  conducts  an  intelligence  office 
and  general  millinery  and  dry-goods  shop,  built  in 
such  a  way  as  to  cover  almost  completely  one  of  the 
fine  stained  glass  windows. 

From  personal  observation,  I  should  say  that  the 
cattle  markets  of  all  France  are  not  so  much  a 
necessity  as  a  social  function.  Buyers  and  sellers 
are  as  gossipy  as  a  sewing  circle,  men  even  more 
so  than  women.  There  is  not  the  same  opportunity 
for  sociability  at  the  pig  markets — women  are  largely 
in  the  majority  there;  at  least  they  were  in  St. 
Brieuc.  They  tuck  their  purchases  under  their  arms 
and  go  calmly  off,  seemingly  unconscious  of  what 
a  noise  they  are  making  in  the  world.  You  can 
hear  each  particular  pig  long  after  his  buyer  is  lost 
to  view. 

[245] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 


A  narrow-gauge  steam  tram  rattles  alarmingly 
aver  a  lofty,  twisting  viaduct  and  down  a  valley 
from  St.  Brieuc  to  its  tidal  harbor  at  La  Legue,  on 
the  little  river  Gouet.  A  small  hotel  stands  on  a 
point  high  above  the  station,  and*  as  we  stepped 
from  the  train  at  Sous-le-Tour  the  veranda  and 
yard  automatically,  or  so  it  seemed,  filled  with  men 
and  maids  of  various  sizes  and  descriptions.  One 
or  two  started  toward  the  station.  After  taking  a 
look  at  the  view,  we  turned  and  walked  unhurriedly 
back  down  the  track.  When  we  looked  again  at  the 
hotel  not  a  living  thing  was  in  sight.  We  wondered 
what  they  said. 

As  for  the  town  itself,  we  were  disappointed  to 
find,  instead  of  quaint  old  houses  full  of  the  at- 
mosphere of  the  sea,  excellent  stone  structures  built 
wall  to  wall.  But  we  were  repaid  for  our  trip  when 
an  ancient  dame  invited  us  into  her  home.  The  inte- 
rior was  typically  Breton.  We  descended  a  step  to 
a  bare  earthen  floor.  Straight  ahead  was  a  huge 
fireplace,  full  of  pots  and  cranes;  to  our  left,  one 
window  and  two  small  tables ;  and  the  right  side  was 
taken  up  by  two  great  Breton  beds.  The  bed  is 
nothing  but  a  closet,  big  enough  to  crawl  into, 
mounted  upon  a  linen-locker.  The  upper  berth  of 
an  old-fashioned  Pullman  is  the  nearest  comparison 
to  it  I  can  make.  Once  inside,  you  pull  to  the  cur- 
tains, or  sliding  wooden  doors,  and  go  to  suffocation. 
At  least,  that  is  the  way  it  appeals  to  any  one  who 

likes  fresh  air. 

[246] 


IN    OLD    BRITTANY 


From  St.  Brieuc,  the  way  eastward  is  through  a 
verdant  land  of  farms  and  gardens,  until  you  reach 
the  garrison  town  of  St.  Malo,  which  stands  on  a 
granite  island,  now  connected  with  the  mainland  by 
a  causeway.  Its  massive  walls  rise  so  high  you  have 
to  climb  to  the  third  floor  of  any  sort  of  building 
to  see  over  them ;  the  streets  are  narrow  and  black 
and  tortuous  ;  the  air  seems  never  to  circulate  through 
them,  and  it  is  easy  here  to  conjure  up  the  romantic 
past.  The  Malouins  have  always  been  a  seafaring 
folk,  bold  and  successful  traders  in  peace  and  dash- 
ing privateers  in  war.  Jacques  Cartier,  the  discov- 
erer of  Canada,  was  born  here.  So  was  the  pirate 
Duguay-Trouin,  afterward  the  famous  admiral ;  the 
other  pirate  Surcouf,  Mahe  de  la  Bourdonnais,  and 
many  another. 

Unfortunately,  the  little  city  is  as  dirty  and  slimy 
and  damp  as  its  history  is  exciting.     One  glimpse 
of  the  street-cleaning  department  tells  why — it  seems 
to  be  a  suffragette  organization  entirely.     The  only 
street-cleaners   we  saw  were  women   with  wheelbar- 
rows, who  can  scarcely  be  physically  strong  enough 
to   give  these   absolutely  filthy   streets   the   drastic 
cleaning  they  need.     Indeed,  such  frank  disregard  of  \ 
the  principles  of  cleanliness  in  a  country  that  claims  ; 
to  be  civilized  is  unparalleled  in  our  experience.     St.  \ 
Malo's  odor  is  something  that  can  neither  be  ignored 
nor  forgotten.  i 

The  town's  most  pleasant  feature  is  the  massive 
wall  that  has  guarded  it  so  long  against  man  and 

[247] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA  TO    SEA 

sea,  and  a  tour  of  the  ramparts  affords  a  succession 
of  pictures  not  soon  forgotten:  the  queer,  black, 
crowded  together  little  city  itself  huddling  inside; 
^the  neighbor- town  of  St.  Servan;  the  bay  full  of 
fortified  islets,  on  the  largest  of  which,  Grand  Bey, 
Chateaubriand  sleeps ;  the  favorite  English  bathing 
resort  of  Dinard,  on  the  little  cape  opposite,  a  mod- 
ern, costly,  stylish  place,  with  a  spacious  beach  and 
dehghtful  surroundings,  reached  by  the  electric 
vedettes  that  skip  over  the  glinting  water  like  so 
many  sea-spiders.  And  if,  on  the  seaward  side  of 
town,  you  gaze  straight  down  the  wall,  you  appre- 
ciate, as  never  before,  what  high  tides  mean — from 
twenty  to  thirty  feet  normally,  and  at  the  full  of  the 
spring  tide  forty-nine  feet! 

Until  1770,  St.  Malo  was  protected  by  fierce  mas- 
tiffs, who  might  still  have  been  the  city's  policemen 
had  they  not  fallen  into  the  reprehensible  habit  of 
^'biting  the  calves  of  gentlemen."  Not  the  least 
amusing  part  of  the  story  is  that  when  the  watch- 
dogs were  suppressed  the  town  had  to  adopt  a  new 
coat-of-arms — it  had  been  a  silver  shield  bearing  a 
red  dog.  Not  even  Mark  Twain  himself  could  have 
conceived  a  more  astonishing  insignia,  nor  a  more 
ludicrous  collapse  of  its  oflScial  dignity. 


[248] 


XXI 

THE       NORMAN       COUNTET 

THOSE  rollicking  pirates,  the  Northmen,  first 
spread  terror  along  the  northern  coasts  of 
France  in  a  series  of  dashing  raids  in  the 
ninth  century,  sacking,  burning  and  destroying.  The 
Franks  hated  and  feared  them  so  that  in  861  they 
gave  Woland,  the  sea  king,  five  thousand  livres  of 
silver  to  drive  his  turbulent  fellow  countrymen  out 
of  the  Seine  valley.  They,  in  turn,  offered  him 
more  to  let  them  alone,  and  Woland,  being  a  thrifty 
soul,  accepted  both  gifts,  and  sailed  cheerily  off 
with  his  double  fee.  Can  this  have  been  the  origin 
of  graft  in  France.'^ 

Finally,  in  911,  King  Charles  the  Simple,  one  of 
the  degenerate  Carlovingians,  allowed  the  Northmen 
to  settle  permanently  along  the  lower  Seine,  with 
Rouen  as  their  capital,  on  condition  that  they  become 
Christians  and  acknowledge  the  supremacy  of  the 
King  of  France.  They  did  what  was  required  of 
them  in  amusing  fashion,  and  rebuilt  the  churches 
and  mponasteries  they  had  burned.  Their  leader, 
Rollo,  became  the  founder  of  a  long  line  of  rulers, 
Dukes  of  Normandy,  and  their  province  the  most 
prosperous  portion  of  France. 

[249] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

The  Norman  of  to-day  is  a  pleasant,  manly  fellow, 
proud  of  the  great  mother,  France,  though  it  is  of 
Normandy  that  he  speaks  most  lovingly.  He  thinks 
of  the  province  as  M.  Jules  Janin  has  written  of  it: 
"Normandie,  land  blest  of  heaven.  Land  rich  in 
old  ruins,  in  fresh  landscapes ;  equally  dear  to  the 
historian  and  to  the  painter,  never  can  it  be  too 
much  celebrated.  At  every  step,  in  both  past  and 
present,  you  encounter  a  grand  monument  or  a  grand 
man." 

When  we  think  of  Normandy,  however,  neither 
the  grand  monuments  nor  the  grand  men  come  first 
to  mind.  Instead,  we  see  peaceful  blossoming  or 
fruit-laden  apple  orchards,  broad  fields  glowing  with 
billowing  grain,  acre  upon  acre  of  perfectly  tilled 
and  richly  productive  land ;  fertile  hill  and  vale  full 
of  soft-eyed  kine,  gemmed  with  magnificent  forests, 
veined  with  pellucid  streams.  Cider,  produced  by 
these  apple  orchards  so  lovely  in  spring,  is  the  chief 
drink  of  the  province,  and  has  been  for  centuries — 
witness  the  fifteenth  century  Apology  of  Cider,  ac- 
credited to  Olivier  Basselin. 

Rollo's  most  illustrious  descendant  was  William 
the  Conqueror,  seventh  duke  of  his  line.  Illegitimate, 
early  an  orphan,  and  heir  to  a  duchy  which  took  hard 
fighting  to  hold,  young  William  was  reared  in  an 
atmosphere  of  combat  and  conquest  that  brought 
out  all  the  sterner  qualities,  and  fitted  him  well  for 
the  conquering  and  kingship  of  England  in  1066. 
The  city  of  Caen  was  especially  beloved  of  the  great 

[250] 


THE    NORMAN    COUNTRY 

duke,  and  it  was  there  that  he  and  his  duchess  built 
their  penitential  abbeys — the  price  they  paid  for 
breaking  the  ecclesiastical  law  by  marrying  within 
the  forbidden  degrees  of  relationship. 

Though  many  changes  have  been  made  since  its 
dedication,  William's  monastic  church  of  St.  Etienne 
still  shows  its  bold  and  simple  Romanesque  design, 
depending  rather  upon  mass  than  detail  for  its  effect, 
the  very  kind  of  sanctuary  we  might  expect  to  find 
planned  by  the  Conqueror.  His  burial  here  was 
marked  by  astonishing  scenes  that  verged  close  upon 
both  tragedy  and  farce.  After  that  his  bones  rested 
in  peace  for  almost  five  hundred  years,  when  they 
were  rudely  scattered  by  a  Calvinistic  mob,  and  again 
by  the  revolutionists  in  1793.  It  is  said  that  a  thigh- 
bone is  all  that  remains  in  his  tomb  to-day.  The 
Protestants  also  demolished  stained  glass,  destroyed 
the  spire  of  the  central  tower,  and  left  the  choir 
in  such  a  condition  that  it  was  saved  with  diflScultv. 
During  the  religious  wars  of  the  sixteenth  century 
there  seems  to  have  been  httle  to  choose  between 
the  two  factions — each  persecuted  and  destroyed 
whenever  strong  enough,  or  opportunity  permitted. 

Like  St.  Etienne,  the  Duchess  Matilda's  conventual 
church  of  St.  Trinite  is  a  splendid  and  satisfying 
example  of  the  vaulted  basilica  with  piers,  though 
it  is  both  more  delicate  in  conception  and  far  richer 
in  execution.  This  Duchess  was  beautiful,  virtuous 
and  accomplished,  yet  the  Calvinists  did  not  spare 
her  bones,  but  scattered  them  right  and  left,  destroy- 

[251] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

ing  her  tomb.  The  revolutionists  were  more  cour- 
teous ;  they,  in  turn,  destroyed  the  rebuilt  tomb, 
but  they  did  not  disturb  the  bones. 

Some  of  the  streets  of  Caen  are  veritable  museums 
of  medieval  architecture,  so  far  as  the  houses  are 
concerned,  and  the  number  of  interesting  churches 
is  remarkable.  The  church  of  St.  Pierre,  a  com- 
posite structure  of  three  centuries,  is  none  the  less 
a  fine  piece  of  Gothic,  crowned  with  a  wonderful 
fourteenth  century  spire,  a  triumph  of  architectural 
skill,  which  rises  246  feet  above  the  busy  street. 
Simply  a  shell  of  masonry  sixteen  centimeters  thick, 
unsupported  from  within,  it  has  withstood  the  wind 
and  wear  of  seven  centuries,  and  even  a  bombard- 
ment. The  beautiful  Renaissance  apse,  added  in 
1521  by  Hector  Sohier,  a  native  of  Caen,  is  one 
of  the  richest  and  most  tasteful  examples  of  the 
period. 

The  flower  market  of  Caen,  on  the  principal  street 
in  the  commercial  center  of  the  city,  adds  greatly 
to  the  pleasure  of  an  early  morning  walk  with  its 
fragrance  and  brilliant  color  masses.  It  was  here 
that  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  lady  with  a  vege- 
table cart  and  a  draft-dog.  Marie-Claire  she  called 
herself.  She  may  have  been ;  or  she  may  very  well 
have  had  a  copy  of  Marie-Claire  stowed  away  among 
her  vegetables,  to  read  when  business  was  slack.  Our 
pleasant  conversation  was  interrupted  by  her  hurling 
terrifying  anathemas  after  an  impudent  street  arab 
who  snatched  at  a  cabbage  as  he  went  by. 

[252] 


THE    NORMAN    COUNTRY 

Away  up  on  the  hill  back  of  the  town  proper,  in 
the  Street-of-the-Powder-Magazine,  a  long,  blank 
wall,  with  an  insignificant  door,  conceals  the  old 
Protestant  Cemetery.  In  one  of  its  quiet,  flow- 
ering byways,  over  a  grass-grown,  forgotten  grave, 
stands  a  marble  slab  inscribed  simply :  "In  the 
memory  of  George  Brummel,  Esq."  The  idol  of 
English  men  of  fashion  and  the  bosom  friend  of 
the  Prince  of  Wales  during  the  early  years  of  the 
last  century,  Beau  Brummel  was  not  a  mere  fop. 
Lord  Byron  said  of  him  that  there  was  nothing 
notable  about  his  dress  except  "a  certain  exquisite 
propriety."  He  had  the  power  of  repartee  to  a 
remarkable  degree,  also.  But  the  Beau's  popularity 
waned  after  a  quarrel  with  the  Prince.  He  fled  to 
France  to  escape  his  creditors,  was  made  British 
consul  at  Caen,  and  after  a  long  series  of  misadven- 
tures died  a  pauper  in  the  charity  hospital. 

There  are  three  ways  to  enter  or  to  leave  Caen: 
the  flowing  road,  the  prosaic  railway,  the  river  of 
a  thousand  delights.  I  have  tried  all  three.  Each 
has  its  advantages  and  its  correlative  disadvantages. 
One  would  naturally  think  the  automobile  the  best; 
but  the  rate  at  which  most  motorists  travel  does  not 
give  as  much  opportunity  for  studying  the  people, 
or  for  photography,  as  the  little  local  trains.  Along 
the  roads  you  find  many  houses  literally  made  of 
mud;  yet  even  these  have  a  palpable  air  of  pros- 
perity, for  Normandy  is  a  thrifty,  prosperous  prov- 
ince.     Many   of   the   wayside   scenes   between   Caen 

[253  1 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 


and  Cherbourg  have  quite  an  English  air.    You  might 
even    take    some    of   the    farmers    themselves    to    be 
Englishmen,  until  they  say  "Bon  jour,  m'sieuT* 
Another   of  the  Conqueror's   cities   is   sleepy  old 

^  Bayeux,  whose  aspect  at  every  turn  is  of  placid 
age  and  dignity.  Set  in  "green  pastures  beside  still 
waters,"  it  clings  about  its  noble  Cathedral  as  the 
little  lambs  gather  about  their  stalwart  shepherd. 
Along  with  the  memory  of  William,  Bayeux  calls  up 

;..>\  the  story  of  his  brother  Odo,  the  greatest  of  the 
bishops  of  a  day  when  the  ecclesiastic  handled  mace 
as  well  as  crozier.  We  see  Odo  in  many  lights :  now 
in  armor,  fighting  fiercely  beside  William ;  now  with 
him  in  England,  made  Earl  of  Kent,  ruling  there 
temporarily,  in  Normandy  spiritually ;  but  always 
leaving  his  contemporaries  far  behind  in  the  race  for 
power  and  reward. 

Though  the  present  Cathedral  is  a  composite  of 
Romanesque,  Gothic  and  flamboyant,  it  appeals  to 
me  as  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  symmetrical  of 
the  French  cathedrals ;  not  so  large  as  to  stupefy, 
not  so  elaborate  as  to  confound  the  beholder,  but 
generously  proportioned,  with  fine  lines  and  boldly 
tapering  spires.  The  interior  is  notable  because  of 
its  dignity,  harmony,  and  splendid  carving:  diaper- 
ing of  many  patterns,  trefoil-headed  arcades,  a  hun- 
dred other  elegant  details ;  and  in  the  choir,  rich 
stalls  and  magnificent  sedilia. 

Bayeux's  chief  claim  to  fame,  however,  lies  not 
in  the  Cathedral,  but  in  the  so-called  "Bayeux  Tap- 

[  254  ] 


THE    NORMAN    COUNTRY 


estry,"  a  historic  monument  of  the  first  rank.  The 
"Tapestry"  is  not  tapestry  at  all,  as  we  know  the 
word,  but  a  seamless  strip  of  plain  linen,  230  feet 
long  by  20  inches  wide,  embroidered  with  crewel  in 
eight  colors.  It  relates  the  story  of  the  conquest 
of  England  in  seventy-two  vivid  scenes,  many  of  them 
explained  by  equally  graphic  Latin  inscriptions. 
Tradition  would  have  us  believe  that  the  Duchess 
Matilda  worked  it  with  her  own  hands,  but  it  seems 
more  likely  that  it  was  made  for  Bishop  Odo,  and 
intended  to  decorate  the  nave  of  the  cathedral  on 
state  occasions.  When  Napoleon  dreamed  of  Eng- 
lish conquest  and  empire  in  1803,  he  had  the  "Tap- 
estry" exhibited  in  the  Louvre  at  Paris,  and  on  the 
stages  of  the  provincial  theaters  to  inflame  popular 
sentiment  and  make  the  people  eager  to  invade  "per- 
fidious Albion."  We  know  what  a  melancholy 
fizzle  that  "invasion"  proved.  Since  Napoleon's 
time  the  "Tapestry"  has  reposed  safely  in  the  Bayeux 
Museum. 

The  western  part  of  Normandy,  called  the  Coten- 
tin,  thrusts  out  into  the  Channel,  its  literal  jumping- 
off  place,  Cherbourg,  where  most  of  the  great  Hners/a^v*^ 
call.  Sooner  or  later,  if  you  land  there  often  enough, 
you  will  come  in  of  a  misty,  sunny  morning  at  day- 
light, when  the  water  is  burnished  copper,  the  drying 
sails  golden  parchment,  and  the  quaint  old  houses 
by  the  docks  agate  and  carnelian.  Then  you  will 
be  glad  of  Cherbourg.  The  Cotentin  Peninsula 
played  an  important  part  in  the  successive  wars  with 

[255  1 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

England,  and  later  distinguished  itself  for  hard  fight- 
ing in  the  religious  wars,  especially  about  Coutances 
and  St.  Lo. 

The  west  fa9ade  of  the  great  church  of  Notre 
Dame  at  St.  Lo,  once  the  Cathedral,  gives  ample  evi- 
dence of  the  frenzied  joy  of  the  Huguenot  m  mu- 
tilating wonders  of  past  days  which  he  could  not 
duplicate.  As  a  whole,  the  church  is  disappointing, 
both  inside  and  out,  because  of  its  structural  pecu- 
liarities, though  it  has  a  charming  little  exterior  stone 
pulpit,  with  a  delicate  stone  canopy  to  give  shelter 
alike  from  sun  and  rain.  It  is  easy  to  see  why  St.  Lo 
is  a  joy  to  artists — the  frowning  cliff  whence  it 
looks  down  the  pretty  little  river  Vire,  the  old  houses, 
the  steep  streets,  the  delightful  walks  in  every  direc- 
tion through  the  verdant  countryside. 

St.  Lo's  neighbor,  Coutances,  was  also  shuttle- 
cocked  back  and  forth  between  French  and  English, 
and  sacked,  battered,  and  even  burned  three  or  four 
times  by  the  Huguenots.  It  stands  upon  a  hill  that 
rises  gently  from  the  plain,  and  against  the  cool 
Norman  sky  its  arrowy  spires  etch  their  slender 
bodies  as  sharply  as  with  acid;  while  below,  the 
shapes  of  trees  and  houses  blend  in  a  harmonious 
tone-picture  of  gray  and  green.  Besides  its  beau- 
tiful Gothic  Cathedral,  it  has  two  other  attractive 
churches,  St.  Pierre  and  St.  Nicolas,  and  some  very 
unusual  houses  like  miniature  castles,  massive  and 
secret,  with  strong  archways  and  slender  stair-towers. 

On  down  the  west  coast  of  Normandy  we  come  to 

[256] 


THE    NORMAN    COUNTRY 

_Avranches,  one  of  the  oldest  towns  in  the  province. 
From  its  height  you  can  look  across  the  bay  to  that 
great  abbey-fortress  of  Mont  St.  Michel,  crowning 
a  towering  mass  of  granite,  with  houses  clinging, 
limpet-fashion,  below.  It  is  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able sights  in  the  world.  The  town  originated  with 
peasants  who  fled  before  the  raiding  Northmen  and 
took  shelter  under  the  wing  of  the  monks.  The  rock 
would  be  as  barren  as  Gibraltar,  but  that  the  Gulf 
Stream  helps  it  support  vegetable  life  fairly  well; 
and  in  little  terrace  gardens  flowers  bloom  brightly 
against  a  background  of  fig,  pine,  cherry  and  cedar 
trees  of  considerable  size. 

There  are  said  to  be  over  two  hundred  inhabitants, 
who  live  upon  the  visitors.  No  sooner  do  you  step 
within  the  gates  than  they  swarm  about  you  in  a 
bedlam  that  might  have  leaped  out  of  a  Cairene 
bazaar,  snarling,  quarreling,  thrusting  themselves 
in  your  way  and  their  trash  in  your  hands,  until 
you  literally  thrust  them  all  aside  and  bolt  up  the 
one  real  street,  the  Grande  Rue.  Perhaps  they  mean 
you  a  kindness,  thinking  that  if  you  buy  their  wares 
— postcards,  spoons,  models,  and  no  one  knows  what 
other  souvenirs — you  will  be  saved  the  leg-strain  of 
the  five  hundred  and  more  steps  you  must  climb  to 
reach  the  top. 

The  fortifications  date  mostly  from  the  fifteenth 
century,  and  are  so  constructed  as  to  take  every 
possible  advantage  of  the  natural  rock.  "The  build- 
ings made  by  the  abbots  at  this  time" — the  Middle 

[257] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

Ages — "are  the  index  of  their  civil  status;  being 
feudal  lords,  they  behaved  as  such,"  says  VioUet- 
le-Duc.  The  entrance  is  through  twin  portals,  the 
Boulevard  Gate  and  the  King's  Gate,  where  the  rusted 
teeth  of  the  iron  portcullis  still  project  a  few  inches 
below  the  edge  of  the  arch.  The  Grande  Rue,  with 
its  trashy  shops,  curves  from  the  gateway  up  to  the 
abbey,  ending  in  flights  of  steps  leading  to  the 
portals  of  the  fortress. 

Inside,  we  are  imprisoned,  with  other  rash  inva- 
ders, in  the  huge  guard-hall  until  there  are  enough 
to  be  herded  in  one  great,  straggling  drove.  On 
and  up  we  go,  until,  having  mounted  our  five  hun- 
dred steps,  we  come  out  on  a  great  platform  where 
stands  the  abbey  church,  restored  out  of  all  recogni- 
tion. "Restoration"  is  a  word  very  dear  to  the 
French  architect  of  to-day.  From  the  platform, 
seaward  you  look  out  over  bare  sands  or  gleaming 
bay,  according  to  the  tide;  while  landward,  Nor- 
mandy and  Brittany  stretch  in  verdant  plains  as 
far  as  the  eye  can  reach;  and  straight  overhead,  at 
the  peak  of  the  spire,  St.  Michael  floats  in  his  proper 
place  in  the  heavens.  It  would  take  an  entire  book 
to  describe  all  the  diff'erent  structures  that  carry 
on  the  rough,  natural  pyramid  of  the  rock  into  what 
a  French  critic  has  called  a  paradox  of  architecture 
— building  in  the  air  and  burrow  in  the  rock,  cloisters 
and  cellars,  dining-rooms  and  almonry,  crypts  and 
chapter  hall,  promenades  and  sleeping-rooms,  gar- 
dens and  fortress-like  entrances. 

[258] 


THE    NORMAN    COUNTRY 


The  north  side  of  the  rock  is  almost  wholly  cov- 
ered by  the  great,  three-storied  pile  called  the  Marvel, 
and  truly  marvelous  is  the  construction.  From  the 
church  we  enter  the  cloisters,  a  masterpiece  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  with  beautiful  little  shafts  of 
polished  granite,  most  of  them  pink.  The  carving 
is  all  in  Caen  stone,  the  sculptures  themselves  of 
infinite  delicacy  and  countless  variety :  roses,  parts 
of  figures,  inscriptions,  and  here  and  there  a  monk 
picking  grapes  in  a  vineyard.  In  olden  times  the 
central  court  was  a  flower  garden.  Now  it  is  paved 
with  asphalt,  to  protect  the  Chevaliers'  Hall  directly 
below,  a  magnificent  specimen  of  thirteenth  century 
architecture,  with  pointed  vaults  and  a  triple  row 
of  columns,  two  supported  by  enormous  pillars  in 
the  crypt  below,  the  other  by  the  solid  rock.  Its 
name  comes  from  the  initiation  in  it  by  Louis  XI,  in 
1469,  of  the  Order  of  the  Chevaliers  of  St.  Michael. 

Down  among  the  crypts  and  cellars  of  the  sub- 
structures is  the  charmer,  or  burying-ground,  in 
which  the  deceased  monks  were  interred  in  quicklime ; 
also  the  black  and  appalling  dens  grouped  under  the 
name  of  prisons. 

In  the  town,  the  little  parish  church  of  St.  Pierre 
illustrates  the  restrictions  of  space  on  this  rocky  pin- 
nacle. Part  of  it  is  built  out  over  the  main  street, 
and  part  of  it  cut  out  of  the  natural  rock,  left  rough 
and  unshaped  as  when  it  was  created.  The  hatch- 
ments or  arms  blazoned  on  the  walls  and  ceiling 
are  those  of  a  hundred  and  nineteen  of  the  nobles 

[259] 


FRANCE   FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 


of  the  Order  of  St.  Michael  who  defended  the  rock 
against  the  English,  according  to  the  story  the 
parish  priest  told  me.  They  give  the  little  interior 
more  the  air  of  a  manor  hall  than  of  a  church. 

The  fortress-like  character  of  the  abbey  and  town 
is  nowhere  better  seen  than  from  the  ramparts.  The 
massive  bulk  of  the  chatelet,  or  entrance  to  the  abbey 
precincts,  lofty  and  frowning,  throws  the  elegant, 
flamboyant  apse  and  fleche  into  strong  contrast 
against  the  dull  sky,  that  seems  to  hang  directly 
over  the  gilded  copper  statue  of  St.  Michael.  How 
strange  that  this  spot  was  once  a  mere  bald  outcrop 
of  granite  in  a  forest  by  the  sea!  Stranger  yet 
that  the  abbey  should  have  been  founded  by  the 
intervention  of  the  Archangel  Michael  himself !  The 
story  goes  that  Bishop  Aubert  of  Avranches  was 
twice  told  in  visions  to  build  here,  but  neglected  to 
fulfill  the  command.  The  third  time  the  Archangel 
came  he  put  his  finger  upon  the  bishop's  head — and 
burned  a  hole  clean  through  miter  and  hair  and 
bone.  Then  the  bishop  built  as  fast  as  he  could. 
Such  a  visitation  inspired  him  to  speed  and  good 
works,  and  eventually  the  abbey  became  a  testimony 
to  the  faith  of  men.  To  this  day  the  pierced  skull 
is  to  be  seen  in  Avranches,  that  he  who  scoffs  may 
behold. 


[260] 


XXII 


ROUEN 


WHO  would  go  roaring  over  a  dusty  road 
"upon"  his  car,  as  the  French  say,  when 
he  can  glide  along  emerald  pathways  at 
a  seemly  pace  and  enjoy  the  living  pictures  that 
unroll  ahead  without  dust  or  jar?  Nothing  could 
be  more  delightful  than  the  boat  trip  from  Caen 
to  Havre.  At  first  the  channel  is  so  narrow  and 
sharp-cornered  that  boats  have  to  back  out,  and  I 
have  never  seen  prettier  handling  of  a  craft  under 
any  circumstances.  The  least  hesitation  would  have 
rammed  us  into  a  steel  side  or,  worse  yet,  into 
the  stone  abutment  of  one  of  the  many  little  bridges 
we  passed  after  we  swung  around  and  headed  toward 
the  sea. 

At  the  first  of  these  bridges  a  very  small  boy  on 
a  bicycle  rode  out  so  close  to  the  edge  it  looked  as 
if  he  intended  to  take  the  leap  on  his  wheel.  Instead, 
he  began  an  animated  conversation  with  a  young  girl, 
and,  as  we  steamed  on,  mounted  again  and  rode  along 
the  towpath  for  some  time,  still  talking  to  her  in 
fast  staccato.  Words  were  indistinguishable  for  the 
chatter  on  deck.     Perhaps  Maman  had  sent  final  in- 

[  261  ] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO   SEA      , 

structions  for  daughter's  behavior  in  the  gay  city 
of  Le  Havre. 

How  hke  the  long  reaches  of  the  Suez  Canal:  the 
narrow  channel,  the  vessels  passing  so  close  you  can 
toss  a  biscuit  from  one  to  another.  But  there  is 
no  desert;  instead,  graceful  lines  of  trees,  between 
whose  slender  trunks  glimmer  entrancing  paysages 
— warm-colored  houses,  nestling  in  the  green  of 
orchards;  cattle  grazing;  an  automobile  tearing  a 
furrow  through  the  background  it  hides  in  dust- 
clouds. 

From  Caen  to  Le  Havre  the  pictures  are  all  small ; 
but  from  Le  Havre  to  Rouen,  along  the  Seine,  the 
canvases  are  big,  and  the  river  bank  fairly  bristles 
with  memories  of  the  past:  quaint  little  Honfleur, 
the  grim  castle  of  Tancarville,  the  spire  of  Caudebec, 
and  Jumieges,  a  shimmering  ghost  of  an  abbey. 
Twisting  and  winding  like  a  snake,  the  river  at  last 
reaches  the  one-time  capital  of  the  Northmen,  for 
more  than  twelve  hundred  years  a  great  commercial 
center,  and  now  the  point  where  deep-water  vessels 
discharge  their  cargoes  into  smaller  craft  for  trans- 
portation by  river  and  canal  to  inland  cities. 

It  is  well  to  come  in  by  river,  for  if  you  come  by 

train  you  burrow  under  the  hills  that  guard  Rouen 

like  walls,  and  emerge  in  a  smoky  station  over  in  one 

corner  of  the  town  that  gives  no  idea  whatever  of 

the  city  as  it  really  is.    Much  better  the  wide  wharves, 

with  their  cheerful  cafes.    As  we  stepped  ashore  upon 

the  gleaming  quay,  fresh  washed  by  the  rain  and 
'-      '      -  [262] 


ROUEN 

now  flashing  in  the  afternoon  sunshine,  Rouen  seemed 
a  city  of  jasper  paved  with  gold.  Even  the  shabby 
old  barouche,  for  which  we  bargained  with  true  Gallic 
ferocity  and  shrewdness,  took  on  unwonted  chic  and 
gaiety,  and  rumbled  us  over  the  cobbles  of  the  broad 
water-front  into  a  city  so  full  of  charm,  so  instinct 
with  life,  that  even  its  meanest  and  dullest  streets 
filled  us  with  enthusiasm  and  eagerness.  A  thousand 
figures  of  the  past  came  crowding  up  before  us ; 
names  unnumbered  called  to  mind  great  deeds  and 
great  infamies.  Here  Joan  of  Arc  met  her  cruel 
,fate;  here  loving  hands  reared  the  towering  Cathe- 
dral ;  here  Georges  of  Amboise  ruled,  and  was  buried 
and  commemorated ;  and  here,  in  a  bleak  little  street, 
we  found  ourselves  at  home  in  a  wonderful,  age-old 
hotel,  full  of  kindness  and  surprises.  And  yet, 
despite  all  this,  Rouen  is  a  material,  thriving,  mod- 
ern center,  devoted  to  cotton-spinning  and  weaving 
and  the  manufacture  of  handkerchiefs.  How  utterly 
trivial  that  seems,  compared  with  the  making  of  his- 
tory and  great  stone  monuments  for  posterity  to 
wonder  at ! 

There  is  a  page  in  one  of  my  French  notebooks 
headed,  "Pleasant  Reflections  on  P.  O."  They  were 
not  quite  so  pleasant  the  day  I  reflected  them.  It 
so  chanced  that  some  one  sent  me  a  registered  pack- 
age, and  as  I  had  no  passport  or  other  means  of 
official  identification,  the  same  postal  clerk  who  for 
days  had  been  giving  me  regular  mail  refused  me 

[263] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO   SEA 

with  the  decision  of  a  time-lock  on  a  bank  vault. 
"Two  witnesses,  or  the  consul's  certificate,"  he  in- 
sisted, after  I  had  attempted  subterfuge.  Back  to 
the  hotel  I  plodded  for  "witnesses  of  identity,"  and 
M,  le  Proprietaire  solemnly  assured  me  that  he  would 
go,  and  it  would  be  all  right. 

"Attendez-peu,  s'  plait y"  he  said — "Just  a  minute, 
please." 

Half  an  hour  later,  when  he  had  finished  washing 
the  breakfast  dishes-^I  sat  in  a  delightful  little  court, 
where  I  could  see  straight  into  the  kitchen — cleaning 
the  sink,  feeding  his  canary  and  cleaning  its  cage, 
getting  the  vegetables  ready  for  dinner,  and  doing 
sundry  other  odd  jobs  about  the  place,  he  lumbered 
out,  beaming,  shouted  to  his  daughter  for  "rrwn 
carnef — my  tag — and  struggling  into  his  coat,  we 
were  off  as  fast  as  his  350  pounds  of  rheumatism 
could  waddle.  At  the  corner  he  said  smilingly: 
"  'Tendez-ici.  J'  cherche  Vautre  temoin;  laT'  and 
vanished  into  a  confectioner's. 

Followed  another  delay,  during  which  I  stood  on 
the  comer  and  saw  a  man  on  a  bicycle  deliberately 
turn  out  of  his  way  to  run  over  a  small  dog.  Then 
came  Monsieur,  and  with  him  one  in  carpet  slippers 
and  long  blue  apron,  lacking  collar  and  hat.  Sol- 
emnly we  bowed  to  each  other  and  marched  on  again 
toward  the  Post  Office. 

Confidently  I  approached  the  brusque  clerk.  "Be- 
hold my  excellent  witnesses,  monsieur — two  gentlemen 
of  Rouen.     Give  me  my  package,  please." 

[264] 


ROUEN 

Severely  he  scrutinized  them.  "Have  you  your 
licenses,  gentlemen?" 

'*Oui!  oui!  out!"  they  chorused,  and  presented 
voters'  cards,  entitling  them  to  wear  their  heads 
and  be  out  after  eight  o'clock  at  night  unattended. 

Monsieur  le  Clerc  studied  the  cards  gravely,  then 
the  men  who  presented  them.  Then  he  nodded  judi- 
cially. Two  minutes  later  it  was  all  over.  Outside, 
we  all  shook  hands  and  bowed  and  parted  with  mutual 
expressions  of  endearment  and  esteem. 

The  resistless  demands  of  modem  life  and  com- 
merce have  cut  the  patchwork-like  old  city  into  bits 
with  broad,  straight  boulevards,  run  tramcars  along 
streets  where  their  presence  seems  desecration — and 
mightily  convenient  at  times — and  built  uninterest- 
ing, straight  fa9ades  in  exchange  for  beauty  and 
fascination.  Of  course,  the  city  had  to  be  made 
sanitary.  But  why  should  the  modernizer  be  either 
a  vandal  or  an  ignoramus.''  A  few  streets  are  still 
a  joy  to  the  eye:  the  rue  St.  Romain,  to  the  north 
of  the  Cathedral,  for  instance,  with  its  curious,  over- 
hanging house-fronts — the  one  with  the  heads  of 
the  bishops  carved  upon  its  corbels,  and  its  opposite 
neighbor,  called  the  Joan  of  Arc  house.  Probably 
she  saw  it  when  she  was  here. 

In  the  very  heart  of  Rouen,  the  Grosse  Horloge 
spans  one  of  the  busiest  streets ;  and  the  great  bell- 
tower,  with  a  toylike  curiosity-shop  and  a  mediocre 
fountain,  stands  beside  it.  The  clock  frame  appro- 
priately conveys  the  idea  of  passing  time:  the  flam- 

[2651 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

ing  sun,  the  fleecy  clouds.  Above  and  below,  the 
Agnus  Dei,  part  of  the  city's  arms,  steps  forward, 
one  patte  raised,  as  much  a  wanderer  as  his  fellow 
Northmen.  The  bell-tower  is  one  of  the  many  simi- 
lar tokens  in  France  of  the  people's  civic  rights,  and 
since  1150,  when  the  great  bell  Rouvel  was  first  hung 
in  it,  the  belfry's  story  has  been  the  tale  of  the  con- 
tinual resistance  of  the  masses  to  the  encroachments 
of  their  kings. 

Not  one  stone  remains  upon  another  to  tell  of 
the  wild  days  of  Merovingian  rule,  nor  yet  of  the  later 
Carlovingian  times,  though  Charlemagne  thought  so 
well  of  the  city  that  he  left  its  cathedral  a  valuable 
legacy  in  his  will.  Almost  nothing  is  there  of  even 
the  Norman  period,  though  those  baptized  pirates 
rebuilt  much  of  what  they  had  previously  destroyed. 
Almost  all  of  interest  is  of  the  French  Renaissance, 
except  the  great  churches;  but  what  a  revelation 
they  are  in  themselves ! 

No  meaningless  masses  of  stone  and  mortar  these, 
but  the  living  voice  of  the  age  that  built  them.  Ages, 
in  the  Cathedral's  case;  for  here  is  no  such  consecu- 
tive work  as  in  Amiens,  but  a  mingling  of  styles, 
from  the  twelfth  to  the  fourteenth  centuries.  And 
since  each  architect  expressed  his  age,  without  regard 
to  what  went  before,  the  result  might  be  called  an 
architectural  progression,  scarcely  happy  in  effect. 
Add  to  this  the  mutilations  by  the  Calvinists  and  the 
heavy  hand  of  the  restorer,  and  the  fa9ade  is  a  keen 

disappointment  as  a  whole  because  of  its  jumbled 

[266] 


ROUEN 

and  unfinished  or  mutilated  designs ;  but  the  central 
portal,  with  its  leaping,  flame-like  gable,  stands  out 
a  jewel,  perfect  and  satisfying.  The  beautiful 
Gothic  Butter  Tower  is  said  to  have  been  largely 
built  with  money  the  people  paid  for  dispensations 
to  eat  butter  in  Lent. 

Inside,  no  great  rood-screen  obstructs  the  view; 
instead,  an  unbroken  vista  stretches  away  446  feet 
to  the  stilted  arches  of  the  apse,  through  which  may 
be  seen  the  distant  east  windows  of  the  Lady  Chapel. 
Though  the  nave  is  92  feet  high,  the  effect  of  this 
height  is  lost  by  the  peculiar  method  of  arcading, 
the  imposing  upon  the  main  arches  of  short  duplicates 
of  themselves.  Many  illustrious  dead  have  found  a 
resting-place  within  the  Cathedral  walls ;  and  the 
heart  of  the  Lion-Hearted  Richard  of  England  is 
here.  The  great  tombs  are  in  the  locked  Lady  Chapel, 
and  you  are  allowed  to  cool  your  heels  outside  its 
bars  until  a  pompous  flunkey  with  a  club — he  calls 
himself  Le  Suisse^  and  his  club  a  b  at  on- d' office — con- 
descends to  hustle  you  around  in  groups,  mouthing 
the  patter  that  few  hear  and  none  heed,  and  pocketing 
what  he  can.  Why  does  not  the  great  Republic 
charge  an  entrance  fee,  post  proper  guards,  and 
leave  the  visitor  to  examine  the  monument  at  leisure? 

The  elaborate  mausoleum  of  the  two  Cardinals 
Georges  d'Amboise  is  a  regal  structure,  like  a  can- 
opied altar,  characterized  by  a  curious  mixture  of 
Renaissance  details  and  medieval  arrangement. 
Within,  the  two  cardinals  kneel  upon  the  pediment, 

[267] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

and  in  the  features  of  Georges  I,  on  the  right,  it 
is  easy  to  read  the  strong  yet  wise  and  merciful 
personality  which  so  impressed  itself  upon  everything 
he  touched.  The  premier  of  Louis  XII,  and  often 
called  the  French  Wolsey,  he  was  not  only  the  great- 
est archbishop  Rouen  ever  had,  but  a  prelate  whose 
blessings  took  a  grand  material  as  well  as  spiritual 
form.  His  nephew,  Georges  II,  though  not  so  great, 
was  also  a  prudent  and  righteous  churchman. 

Another  famous  tomb  is  that  of  the  Due  de  Breze, 
Grand  Seneschal  of  Normandy,  who  died  in  1531. 
It  was  built  by  Diane  de  Poitiers,  his  widow,  who 
boasts  in  the  inscription  of  her  fidelity  to  him  while 
alive,  and  promises  its  continuance  after  his  death. 
In*  her  widow's  weeds  she  kneels  at  the  head  of  his 
nude  body,  which,  contorted  as  though  death  had 
come  suddenly  or  painfully,  reclines  on  a  marble  slab. 

Legend  would  have  us  believe  that,  like  many  other 
cities,  Rouen  suffered  from  a  man-eating  dragon 
which  lived  in  the  nearby  swamps.  Upon  the  cen- 
tral trunk  of  the  north  transept  door,  a  marvel  of 
carving  of  the  high  tide  of  the  Gothic,  St.  Romain, 
the  patron  of  the  city,  leads  the  captured  monster 
prisoner  with  his  episcopal  stole,  symbolizing  the 
overthrow  of  paganism  and  its  vices  by  Christianity. 
The  legend  grew,  out  of  the  ancient  ceremony,  the 
"Privilege  of  St.  Romain."  This  was  the  pardon 
and  release  of  some  condemned  criminal  by  the  Cathe- 
dral Chapter  each  Ascension  Day ;  and  there  are 
records  of  numerous  quarrels  between  the  civil  and 

[268] 


ROUEN 

the  religious  authorities  over  its  exercise.  At  first 
the  ceremony  was  held  in  the  chapel  of  the*  Norman 
dukes'  old  castle.  When  that  gave  way  to  the  great 
market  halls  and  the  Place  de  la  Haute  Vieille  Tour, 
or  Square  of  the  Old  High  Tower,  a  chapel  was 
erected  on  the  same  spot  for  the  same  purpose.  This 
peculiar,  open-air  chapel  of  the  Fierte  St.  Romain 
was  built  about  1542,  and  here,  in  full  view  of  the 
multitude,  the  prisoner  celebrated  his  pardon  by 
thrice  elevating  the  reliquary  of  the  saint. 

Between  the  square  and  the  Cathedral  runs  the 
dark  rue  de  I'Epicerie,  or  Street-of-the-Groceries, 
where  on  market  days  you  must  go  circumspectly. 
Fortunately  for  eyes  and  noses  alike  the  street  soon 
opens  into  the  Place  de  la  Calende,  where,  right  un- 
der the  walls  of  the  Cathedral,  a  simply  dazzhng 
flower  market  fills  the  air  with  all  the  color  and  per- 
fume of  Nature's  choicest  offerings.  And  directly 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Cathedral  is  the  most  bewitch- 
ing spot  in  the  whole  city,,  the  little  Cour  d'Albane, 
which  must  be  seen  to  be  appreciated. 

Second  of  Rouen's  treasures  is  St.  Ouen,  the  most 
beautiful  and  perfect  of  all  the  abbey  churches  of 
France.  The  west  front  shows  what  restoration  can 
do  at  its  worst.  The  ancient  fa9ade,  a  noble,  unfin- 
ished, concave  structure,  was  ruthlessly  torn  down 
in  the  nineteenth  century,  and  the  present  flat,  badly 
proportioned  one  took  its  place.  The  view  from 
the  southeast  of  the  side  and  apse,  however,  is  very 
lovely,  even  if  it  is  of  the  wrong  side,  with  chapels, 

[269I 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

choir  and  lantern  piled  symmetrically  one  above  the 
other.  The  lantern,  so  much  admired  and  called 
the  Crown  of  Normandy,  is  a  mere  ornamental  es- 
crescence,  having  no  part  in  the  Gothic  construc- 
tion of  the  edifice.  The  characteristics  of  the 
interior  are  its  graceful  height,  the  absence  of  any 
strongly  marked  horizontal  divisions  in  either  wall 
or  pillar,  and  the  extraordinarily  brilHant  effect 
given  by  the  unusual  number  and  size  of  the  windows, 
even  the  triforium  itself  being  backed  by  glass  instead 
of  stone. 

In  the  holy-water  font,  near  the  front  door,  one 
can  see  a  remarkable  reflection  of  practically  the 
whole  interior — vaulting,  piers  and  windows.  One 
afternoon  I  was  studying  this,  too  much  occupied 
to  notice  anything  else,  when  hang!  A  hungry  verger 
clapped  on  a  wooden  cover.  We  looked  at  each  other, 
but  neither  spoke.  I  knew  what  he  wanted,  but  I 
had  seen  all  I  wanted.  The  same  man  had  accosted 
me  surlily  the  day  before.  "You  can't  take  pictures 
here.  This  is  not  a  public  place."  To  my  query, 
"What  is  it,  then  ?"  he  had  nothing  to  say. 

Unfortunately,  the  third  great  shrine  of  Rouen, 
the  parish  church  of  St..  Maclou,  is  so  hedged  in 
by  ugly  utilitarian  buildings  that  it  is  impossible  to 
get  an  adequate  view  of  it.  The  triumphant,  flam- 
boyant fa9ade,  a  convex  series  of  five  great  arches, 
rising  in  size  and  height  toward  the  center,  suggests 
a  great,  spreading,  five-part  porch,  a  design  im- 
mensely more  effective  than  the  usual  flat  one.     The 

[270] 


ROUEN 

rather  heavy  figures*  on  the  celebrated  doors  were 
badly  defaced  by  the  Huguenots,  and  in  1793  the 
mob  applauded  a  gutter  child  who  hacked  at  the 
heads  of  the  statues  with  an  axe.  How  perfectly  this 
shows  the  spirit  of  those  times !  The  effect  of  the 
interior,  which  ought  to  be  as  beautiful  as  the  out- 
side, is  completely  ruined  by  furnishings  which  are 
in  the  worst  possible  taste.  Only  one  gem  has  sur- 
vived destruction  or  extinction — the  exquisite  stair- 
case, lacework  in  carved  stone,  leading  to  the  organ 
loft. 

Not  far  from  the  church  Is  one  of  the  strangest 
of  all  the  city's  varied  sights,  the  ancient  cemetery 
called  the  Aitre  St.  Maclou,  founded  during  the  rav- 
ages of  the  black  plague  in  1348.  It  is  a  tiny  place, 
a  mere  interior  court,  surrounded  by  moldy,  sixteenth 
century  buildings — ^with  skeletons  leaping  wildly  in 
the  Danse  Macabre,  as  they  drag  away  unwilling 
victims,  in  an  astonishing  series  of  carvings  all 
around  the  cloister-like  enclosure.  The  children  and 
the  sisters  of  the  charity  school  in  the  enclosing 
buildings  pass  blithely  to  and  fro  beneath  them,  quite 
unconscious  of  the  contrast. 

For  a  little  variety,  after  so  much  architecture, 
wander  leisurely  out  through  some  of  the  less  familiar 
quarters  of  the  city,  especially  through  the  street 
Flaubert  abused  as  an  "Ignoble  Little  Venice,"  the  / 
rue  Eau-de-Robec.  It  is  like  Venice,  yet  it  is  wholly  / 
French :  a  narrow,  cobbled  road  on  one  side,  a  nar- 
rower stream  of  murderous-looking  black  water  on 

[271] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

the  other,  flanked  by  houses  ranged  as  tight  as  sar- 
dines, and  approached  each  by  its  Httle  bridge.  Some 
of  the  blocks  are  alive  with  fierce-looking  little  saiu- 
culotteSi  who  spring  up  from  the  barren  cobbles, 
elf-like.  Slatternly  women,  and  slouchy  men  in 
baggy  corduroys  and  undershirts,  lean  from  win- 
dows or  bridge-rails,  before  dwellings  that  charm  by 
their  grotesque  beauty  or  repel  by  their  grimy  rot- 
tenness ;  for  you  are  in  no  elegant  quarter  here, 
but  among  the  oldest  and  poorest  homes  in  town,  an 
outsider  whom  even  the  babies  recognize,  yet  for 
whom,  if  spoken  to,  there  is  always  a  courteous  word. 

Besides  the  three  great  churches  there  are  enough 
others  to  make  any  ordinary  city  proud.  St.  Patrice 
and  St.  Vincent  are  especially  noted  for  their  stained 
glass.  High  up  on  a  gargoyle  of  St.  Vincent's 
apse  a  little  salt-porter  modestly  reminds  Rouen  of 
the  church's  one-time  royal  privilege.  In  1409, 
King  Charles  VI  granted  letters  patent  to  St.  Vin- 
cent's, permitting  it  to  take  toll  of  every  cargo  of 
salt  that  came  into  port.  The  river  was  very  much 
nearer  the  church  then  than  it  is  now,  and  the  porter 
was  placed  where  he  could  look  off  toward  the  busy 
port  and  watch  for  more  salt. 

Many  churches  of  this  City  of  Steeples  have  been 
brutally  converted  to  base  uses — one,  a  wine-cellar, 
with  a  bottling  machine  where  the  holy-water  font 
used  to  stand;  another,  St.  Pierre-du-Chastel,  a  fine 
relic  of  the  past,  has  been  turned  into  a  livery  stable._ 
High  on  its  strong  and  simple  tower,  the  Sweet  Singer 

[272] 


ROUEN 

of  Israel  gazes  down  over  the  changing  city,  his 
harp  mute  and  idle  at  his  side.  Better  far  wipe  out 
the  unneeded  churches  altogether  than  treat  them 
thus.  St.  Andre  was  thus  swept  out  of  the  way  of  the 
broad  new  rue  Jeanne  d'Arc,  one  of  the  main  arteries 
of  the  newer  and  greater  city,  with  the  exception  of 
its  tower,  which  looks  queer  and  lonely  in  its  little 
grass-plot. 

Set  up  against  a  blank  wall,  facing  the  tiny  lawn, 
is  a  delicate  and  beautiful  Renaissance  fa9ade,  which, 
fortunately,  the  city  fathers  had  sense  enough  to 
save  intact.  No  noble's  palace  this,  but  a  simple 
tradesman's  house  from  the  busy  Street-of-the-Clock. 
Clearly  and  artistically  it  tells  us  what  sort  of  men 
these  bourgeois  traders  were  in  the  sixteenth  century. 

We  are  fond  of  decrying  our  own  architecture, 
or  supposed  lack  of  it;  but  what  is  the  twentieth 
century  Frenchman  building?  Our  architectural  past 
is  the  log  hut,  often  flamboyant  with  blazing  Indian 
arrows.  From  it  we  have  developed  size  and  dignity 
and  other  values ;  but  the  Frenchman,  notwithstand- 
ing his  glorious  models,  is  building  monstrosities  to- 
day that  would  be  intolerable  here,  in  spite  of  our 
lack  of  architectural  tradition  and  our  commercial 
spirit. 

The  most  magnificent  building  of  its  type  any- 
where in  Europe,  the  flamboyant  Gothic  Palace  of 
Justice  rises  so  huge  and  ornate  and  solemn  that  it 
imposes  itself  upon  you  as  even  larger  and  more 
grandiose  than   it  is,   if  such   a   thing  be  possible. 

[273] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

Cardinal  Georges  I  d'AmboIse  made  it  the  home  of 
the  permanent  Echiquier,  or  High  Court  of  Nor- 
mandy ;  and  the  Hall  of  Assizes,  with  its  splendid 
cassetted  ceiling,  has  been  the  scene  of  famous  trials 
- — great  personages  have  had  seats  upon  its  bench, 
or  been  haled  before  it.  Not  a  few  of  the  sentences 
it  imposed  seem  to  have  had  as  their  main  purpose 
making  the  punishment  fit  the  crime — hanging  a 
murderer  right  before  his  victim's  house,  for  instance. 

Wonderful  houses  are  so  numerous  in  Rouen  it 
is  not  only  impossible  to  describe  but  even  to  name 
them.  Take  a  guide-book,  and  make  your  own  selec- 
tion of  a  favorite.  But  the  house  which  excels  in 
beauty  and  historical  interest  is  the  Maison  Bourg- 
theroulde,  within  whose  court  the  buttressed  Gothic 
walls  are  covered  with  purely  Renaissance  decorative 
carvings.  To  the  left  is  the  wing  whose  pictorial 
record  is  historically  valuable  as  a  contemporaneous 
transcript  of  the  meeting  between  Henry  VIII,  "King 
of  England  and  France,"  as  he  described  himself, 
and  Francis  I.  That  useless  and  costly  pageant  was 
called,  for  its  extravagance,  "The  Field  of  the  Cloth 
of  Gold" ;  and  the  chroniclers  declared  that  more  than 
one  of  the  French  knights  wore  on  his  back  the  value 
of  woodland  and  water-mill. 

To  many,  however,  the  most  interesting  building 
in  Rouen  is  a  restored  round  tower,  all  that  is  left 
of  the  Chateau  de  Rouen,  built  in  1205  by  Philippe- 
Auguste.  In  it  Joan  of  Arc  was  questioned,  with 
instruments  of  torture  and  executioner's  gear  before 

[  274  ] 


ROUEN 

her  eyes.  We  will  not  linger  over  the  hideous  trag- 
edy. Suffice  it  that  she  was  burned  to  death  in  the 
Old  Market  Place,  May  80,  1431 — the  spot  is  marked 
plainly  in  the  pavement.  The  story  seems  incredible. 
The  English  attitude  we  can  comprehend:  they  had 
captured  a  dangerous  enemy.  But  the  French — 
here  was  a  king  she  had  given  his  crown ;  here  a 
people  she  had  made  a  nation.  The  recent  beatifica- 
tion of  the  white,  heroic  soul  that  passed  upward  on 
wings  of  fire  that  May  afternoon  in  the  Old  Market 
Place  is  tardy,  paltry  recompense  for  the  crime  of 
five  hundred  years  ago. 

"Good  and  Glorious  St.  Joan  of  Arc"  they  label 
her  now !  And  high  on  the  hill  of  Bon  Secours  they 
have  reared  a  huge,  ugly,  triplicate  monster  in  her 
honor.  Why,  with  all  the  exquisite  work  of  three 
great  architectural  periods  to  draw  from,  could 
France  not  have  built  a  fitting  shrine,  one  worthy 
to  be  an  expiatory  offering .^^ 

It  is  worth  remembering  that  less  than  twenty 
years  after  the  tragedy,  the  English,  as  Joan  had 
prophesied,  were  all  on  their  homeward  way,  except 
those  who  had  left  their  bones.  But  though  this 
was  the  last,  it  was  not  the  first  time  they  had  been 
compelled  to  leave  Rouen.  Memories  of  the  first 
time  cluster  around  the  little  town  of  Petit-Andely, 
on  up  the  winding  river,  and  the  ruins  of  Richard 
Coeur  de  Lion's  magnificent  Chateau  Gaillard.  Phil- 
ippe-Auguste  raged  over  the  building  of  the  castle, 
and  he  might  have  continued  to  rage  had  not  Richard 

[275] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

died.  His  weak  and  cowardly  brother,  John,  failed 
to  hold  his  vantage-point,  which  Philip  captured  in 
1204«,  paving  the  way  for  the  expulsion  of  the  English 
from  the  province.  How  they  came  back  with  the 
preposterous  claim  of  Edward  III  in  the  Hundred 
Years'  War,  we  have  already  seen. 

It  is  a  long,  steep  climb  up  to  the  castle,  which 
was  built  purely  for  strength,  without  one  decorative 
line  or  feature.  Its  ruinous  condition  is  due  not  to 
the  many  sieges  it  has  withstood,  but  to  its  use,  in 
the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century,  as  a  quarry 
by  two  religious  orders  of  the  neighborhood.  For- 
tunately, they  fell  to  quarreling  over  it.  A  down- 
pour drove  us  into  the  deep  window  embrasures, 
whence  we  watched  the  changing  panorama  below: 
broad,  sweeping  vistas,  full  of  the  glory  of  river 
and  gracious  fields.  And  as  we  sat  there,  looking 
out,  now  through  storm,  now  through  sunshine,  we 
wondered  if  the  medieval  folk  recognized  the  beauty 
of  the  scene.  Scarcely — the  men  were  watching  for 
enemies,  and  the  women,  perchance,  waited,  heavy- 
hearted,  with  eyes  too  full  of  tears. 

The  little  town  of  Petit-Andely  grew  up  on  the 

river   bank   as   the   castle   grew.      Philippe-Auguste 

made  short  work  of  its  defenses,  and  the  people  fled 

to  the  castle,  only  to  be  turned  back  as  useless  for 

fighting.     Between  the  French  on  one  side  and  the 

English  on  the  other,  the  suflPerings  of  these  helpless 

old  men,  women  and  children  were  too  horrible  to 

tell  here.     It  is  enough  that  half  of  them  died  before 

I  276] 


ROUEN 

Phillppe-Auguste  gave  them  bread  and  passed  them 
through  his  lines. 

At  Petit-Andely,  still  tiny,  we  found  another  of 
those  delightful  little  hotels  run  by  a  family.  A 
fascinating  boy  who  met  us  at  the  train  quietly 
and  politely  told  us  of  the  charms  of  a  tea-terrace 
above  the  river.  We  stood  in  the  courtyard  to  bar- 
gain with  kindly  Madame,  who  held  the  kitchen  door. 
The  daughter  who  served  us  might  have  been  an 
old-time  princess,  black-haired  and  wild-eyed  and 
sternly  lovely.  Little  Yvonne,  who  washed  vegeta- 
bles at  the  fountain,  was  a  fair-haired  Norman  of 
Normans.  Monsieur  was  a  viking  himself,  tall  and 
brawny.  Absent  when  we  arrived,  he  was  probably 
one  of  the  inevitable  fishermen  scattered  along  the 
river  bank.  An  outside  stair  led  to  our  room,  and 
when  it  rained  we  had  to  use  our  umbrellas  to  reach 
the  dining-room.  It  was  only  a  step  through  an 
archway  from  the  courtyard  to  the  river,  where  lay 
the  boats  for  the  use  of  which  monsieur  would  take 
no  pay. 

Floating  out  upon  the  great  river  below  the  castle 
to  watch  the  sunset,  we  could  not  wonder  at  the 
mighty  struggles  of  the  past  to  hold  this  loveliest 
of  provinces ;  and  we  agreed  with  the  Norman — 
"Normandie,  land  blessed  of  heaven.  Land  rich  in 
old  ruins,  in  fresh  landscapes ;  equally  dear  to  the 
historian  and  to  the  painter,  never  can  it  be  too  much 
celebrated." 


XXIII 


HISTORIC        PARIS 


TO  the  traveler  who  really  wishes  to  know  some- 
thing of  France,  the  provinces  and  their 
people  should  be  the  solid  foundation  he 
lays,  without  haste  or  wasted  effort,  before  coming 
to  Paris ;  for  many  who  rush  to  the  Siren  of  the  Seine 
first  are  overmastered  by  her  and  lose  all  sense  of 
proportion — they  come  to  think  that  Paris  is  France. 
As  for  her  frivolities  and  banalities,  we,  the  traveling 
public,  are  to  blame  for  all  that ;  and  as  soon  as  we 
get  over  the  idea  that  it  is  "smart"  to  see  or  to  be 
or  to  do  things  away  from  home  that  we  would  not 
see  or  be  or  do  at  home,  so  soon  will  Paris  change 
her  ways.  Perhaps  the  most  astonishing  thing  about 
the  city  is  her  amazing  vitality.  No  matter  what 
has  happened  to  her — streets  full  of  the  blood  of  her 
children,  famine,  oppression,  war  and  desolation — 
she  has  bounded  up  after  each  calamity  stronger 
than  before,  and  magnificently  optimistic. 

The  city  has  been  severely  criticised  for  sameness, 
due  to  its  "Haussmannizing"  in  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. It  is  true  that  broad  streets  have  plowed 
through  old  cow-path  highways,  houses,  everything  in 

[278] 


HISTORIC    PARIS 


their  path,  with  the  ruthlessness  of  cannon-shots.  But 
that  is  a  part  of  modern  life.  A  great  city  has 
to  breathe,  has  to  have  room  to  circulate,  and  the 
work  was  prophetic:  every  large  city  is  coming  to 
the  same  conclusion,  and  though  much  that  is  beau- 
tiful or  artistic  perishes  under  the  pickaxe  of  prog- 
ress, there  comes  in  exchange  a  municipal  sanity  and 
health  that  more  than  compensates  for  the  loss. 

As  for  sameness,  there  is  not  another  city  on  earth 
that  has  so  widely  and  strongly  varied  an  individual- 
ity in  its  different  parts.  Here  is  an  elegant  capital, 
with  people  of  fashion  and  costly  appurtenances ; 
there  a  backwater  of  revolutionary  days,  evil-smell- 
ing, black,  dirty,  picturesque  as  a  grimoire.  Now 
you  find  yourself  in  an  Italian  city  of  silent  palaces, 
now  in  an  electric-lighted  boulevard,  humming  with 
pleasurers,  and  bubbling  over  with  gaiety;  now  in 
a  noisy,  cheery,  out-of-doors  quarter  that  might 
have  been  plucked  right  out  of  the  heart  of  the 
irresponsible  south.  Here  is  a  great  river,  quick 
with  darting  shuttles,  with  ponderous  tows,  with  all 
the  varied  activities  one  expects  only  in  a  prosperous 
seaport;  and  everywhere  historic  palaces  and  art 
galleries,  vast  open  squares  and  brilliant,  flowering 
parks. 

The  most  fascinating  thing  about  the  city  is  the 
river  that  cuts  it  in  two  and  binds  it  to  Rouen  and 
the  sea;  that  carries  its  pleasure  and  cargo  boats, 
and  helps  to  keep  it  fed  and  employed — incidentally 
keeping  its  fishermen  busy,  too,  by  every  quay  under 

[279] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO   SEA 

the  long  lines  of  trees  that  shade  both  banks.  Bridges 
cross  it  like  the  staff  of  a  music  score,  sometimes  only 
a  block  or  two  apart.  Up  and  down  each  side  and 
across  the  bridges  rush  pounding,  two-storied  trams, 
automobiles,  omnibuses,  flying  cabs  and  hurrying 
crowds.  The  whole  scene  is  unf  orgetable — ^big,  alive. 
Gray,  green,  brown,  whatever  color  the  river  be  by 
day,  black  by  night,  with  long  ripples  and  tremors 
of  multi-colored  lights,  it  is  always  lovely,  but  no- 
where more  so  than  where  the  lies  de  Cite  and  de  St. 
Louis  rise  from  its  busy  surface  like  enchanted  isles, 
fresh,  verdant,  inviting. 

It  was  on  the  lie  de  Cite  that  the  primitive  found- 
ers of  Paris  fixed,  probably  more  as  a  matter  of 
safety — the  swirling  stream  moated  it  perfectly — 
than  for  its  beauty.  The  Romans  carried  on  the 
settlement  into  a  city — ^Lutetia  it  was  then ;  and  when 
Clovis  returned  from  his  victorious  campaign  against 
the  Visigoths  he  made  the  city  his  official  capital. 
The  Frankish  kings,  however,  never  spent  much  time 
there.  Wild  men  that  they  were,  they  preferred 
to  stay  in  the  safety  of  the  open.  Clovis  made  his 
residence  the  splendid  palace  where  Rome  had  ruled, 
high  on  the  hillside  of  the  left  bank  above  the  Seine, 
with  gardens  that  ran  down  the  slope  to  the  water's 
edge.  The  fragments  of  the  baths  that  add  so 
much  to  the  spell  of  the  Musee  de  Cluny's  back  yard 
are  all  that  is  left  of  it  now. 

At  that  time  Ste.   Genevieve,  now  the  patroness 

of  the  city,  was  alive  and  exercised  a  powerful  influ- 

[  280  ] 


HISTORIC   PARIS 


ence  over  both  Clovis  and  his  Queen  Clotilde.  At 
her  death  they  built  a  great  basilica  and  monastery 
over  her  tomb  on  the  hill,  where  they,  too,  were 
buried.  These  buildings  were  among  the  first  of  the 
monastic  foundations,  which  now  began  to  play  so 
important  a  part  in  the  life  of  France.  Free  schools 
were  always  attached  to  those  great  abbeys  and  also 
to  the  cathedrals ;  and  the  Latin  Quarter  of  to-day, 
with  its  baggy  corduroy,  floppy  neckties  and  floppier 
morals,  is  the  direct  outgrowth  of  those  early  schools. 
As  the  fame  of  certain  teachers  grew,  and  students 
flocked  to  them  in  Paris  from  all  over  the  world,  the 
monastic  schools  were  overcrowded,  and  individual 
teachers  took  rooms  wherever  they  could  get  them — 
a  majority  grouped  about  Mt.  Ste.  Genevieve — ^to 
teach  all  who  came.  The  university  itself  was  the 
slow  outgrowth  of  these  loose  and  unofficial  bodies. 

The  Place  St.  Michel  and  the  famous  Boule'-Miche' 
beyond,  are  still  the  heart  of  the  students'  quarter. 
But  neither  in  attire  nor  demeanor  are  the  scholars 
so  conspicuous  as  in  the  days  of  the  first  schools. 
Then  they  were  ragged,  hungry,  impertinent,  beg- 
ging tatterdemalions,  living  the  life  the  poet  Villon, 
himself  student,  bohemian,  burglar  and  man-killer, 
so  wonderfully  describes.  They  recognized  no  au- 
thority save  that  of  the  Church;  and  they  had  fre- 
quent and  often  bloody  fights  with  the  town  officials. 

Many  of  the  students  are  desperately  poor  even 

yet,  and  a  mighty  convenience  for  penniless  genius 

is  the  row  of  second-hand  book-stalls  that  line  the 

[281] 


FRANCE   FROM   SEA   TO    SEA 

river  wall  along  the  Quai  Voltaire,  near  the  booksell- 
ers' Street-of-the-Holy-Fathers.  Wooden  trays,  with 
hinged  lids  covered  with  zinc,  are  most  of  the  stalls, 
and  bending  above  them  day  by  day  you  find  not 
only  students,  eager  to  pick  up  old  text  and  refer- 
ence books  for  a  few  sous,  but  collectors,  curiosity- 
seekers,  foreigners  "doing"  the  Quarter,  and  all 
manner  of  other  folk,  even  to  cabmen  hunting  for 
a  pennyworth  of  blood-and-thunder  to  while  away 
the  unemployed  hours.  The  stalls  recall  the  fact  that 
in  olden  times  you  could  go  up  and  down  and  to 
and  fro  through  Paris  without  ever  glimpsing  the 
river,  the  houses  were  built  so  close  to  it;  and  not 
only  were  the  houses  set  solidly  along  both  banks 
of  the  fifteenth  century  Seine,  but  its  five  bridges 
were  also^  lined  in  the  same  way,  like  the  Ponte 
Vecchio  in  Florence  to-day. 

Just  to  the  east  of  the  Place  St.  Michel  is  one  of 
the  very  dingiest  and  most  sordid  districts  in  Old 
Paris,  a  perfect  maze  of  tangled,  filthy  little  streets, 
but  absolutely  fascinating.  Here  we  find  the  little 
twelfth  century  reconstruction  of  one  of  the  early 
monastic  churches,  St.  Julien-le-Pauvre.  Both  tower 
and  portal  have  been  stripped  away  from  the  tiny 
edifice,  yet  that  mutilation  could  not  despoil  it  of 
its  interior  beauty.  We  wandered  about  in  this  loca- 
tion one  morning,  in  a  chilly  drizzle  not  heavy  enough 
to  send  us  to  our  hotel,  but  disagreeable  enough  to 
drive  the  denizens  of  the  Quarter  indoors.  The  streets 
looked  dreary  and  prosaic,   and  the  few  hurrying 

[282] 


HISTORIC   PARIS 


pedestrians  we  passed  seemed  harmless  and  common- 
place in  the  extreme.  We  had  just  left  St.  Severin, 
and  turned  into  a  mean  little  alley,  when  two  men 
suddenly  reeled  from  a  barroom,  fighting.  Quicker 
than  I  can  tell  it,  the  street  was  full  of  evil  faces, 
men  and  women  alike.  They  circled  about  the  fight- 
ers, their  hands  very  suggestively  in  their  pockets, 
jeering  and  making  horrible  jokes.  In  these  crea- 
tures, unwashed,  uncombed,  more  beasts  than  human 
beings,  we  saw  the  spirit  of  the  Revolution  incarnate : 
all  the  evil  passions  barely  beneath  the  surface,  ready 
even  yet  at  a  spark  to  turn  Paris  into  a  shambles. 

Up  the  hill  we  come  to  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
mansions  of  the  fifteenth  century,  the  Paris  resi- 
dence of  the  Abbots  of  Cluny,  built  on  the  site  of 
the  palace  of  the  Romans.  Fortunately,  it  was  not 
swept  away  in  the  building  orgies  of  following  cen- 
turies, but  still  retains  its  original  appearance  almost 
unaltered,  to  testify  to  the  beauty  of  native  French 
domestic  architecture,  merely  modified  by  the  rising 
Renaissance.  To-day  it  is  a  celebrated  museum  of 
medieval  objects  of  art  and  products  of  industry. 

As  the  mixture  of  the  different  styles  went  on, 
the  buildings  of  the  transitional  period  often  proved 
a  strange  medley.  In  the  case  of  the  church  of  St. 
Etienne-du-Mont,  on  this  Mount  of  Ste.  Genevieve, 
though  the  different  styles  are  clearly  visible,  the 
general  effect  is  good.  The  Revolutionary  madness 
turned  this  venerated  fane  into  a  Temple  of  Filial 
Piety,  and  presented  it  to  the  Theophilanthropists — 

[283] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

whatever  they  may  have  been!  Scattered  about  in 
this  section  are  relics  of  the  Abbey  of  Ste.  Genevieve, 
of  course  not  of  the  original  construction,  a  transi- 
tional tower  called  the  Tower  of  Clovis,  a  fragment 
of  facade,  a  fine  bit  of  refectory. 

The  Sorbonne,  the  University  of  Paris,,  dates  from 
1253,  when  Robert  de  Sorbon,  the  confessor  of  St. 
Louis,  founded  it  as  a  sort  of  hostel  for  both  poor 
students  and  teachers  of  theology.  In  its  vast  am- 
phitheater, which  seats  3,500  persons — our  American 
exchange  professors  go  every  year  to  lecture  there 
on  behalf  of  the  American  universities — is  Pierre 
Puvis  de  Chavannes'  great  mural  allegory.  The 
Sacred  Grove,  one  of  the  best  decorative  works  of 
our  times.  Here  Science  and  Letters  are  so  poetically 
represented  that  they  do  not  seem  cold,  scholastic 
allegories  at  all,  but  fitting  divinities  for  the  Elysian 
background  that  gives  the  great  painting  so  much 
of  its  charm  and  power.  In  the  olden  times,  people 
had  to  have  sculptures  because  they  could  not  read; 
nowadays  they  have  to  have  their  history  in  tabloid 
doses  in  great  paintings  or  small  moving  pictures 
and  the  like,  because  they  will  not  read.  The  church, 
which  contains  the  beautiful  tomb  of  Cardinal 
Richelieu,  is  crowned  by  a  fine  seventeenth  century 
dome. 

Nobody  seems  to  know  to  this  day  on  entering 
the  Pantheon — which  rises  commandingly  over  the 
site  of  the  tomb  of  Ste.  Genevieve,  on  the  highest 
ground  on   this  bank   of  the   river — whether  he  is 

[284] 


HISTORIC   PARIS 


in  a  pagan  temple,  a  Christian  church,  or  a  hall 
of  fame.  Built  as  a  church,  dedicated  to  Ste.  Gene- 
vieve, it  was  turned  into  a  hall  of  fame,  back  into 
a  church,  again  made  a  temple,  reconsecrated  as 
the  sanctuary  of  the  Saint,  and,  as  somebody  has  well 
said,  finally  "taken  away  from  God  and  given  to 
Victor  Hugo !"  Of  course,  there  are  many  illustri- 
ous dead  entombed  here  beside  Hugo — Mirabeau, 
Voltaire  and  Rousseau,  among  others.  The  tympa- 
num decorations,  by  David  d' Angers,  are  illustrative 
rather  than  monumental  art.  Inside,  Puvis  de  Cha- 
vannes  is  represented  by  his  beautiful  incidents  in 
the  life  of  Ste.  Genevieve,  ranging  onward  from  her 
childhood,  that  contrasts  ingenuously  with  her  placid 
old  age,  in  the  gathering  twilight.  The  pictures 
are  saturated  with  humanity  and  instinct  with  spirit. 
The  most  delightful  spot  on  this  left  bank  is  the 
Luxembourg  Garden,  the  only  Renaissance  garden 
left  in  the  entire  city.  The  gem  of  this  verdant 
setting  is  the  splendid  Medici  fountain,  by  Salomon 
de  Brosse,  one  of  the  ablest  architects  of  his  time, 
who  also  built  the  Palace  of  the  Luxembourg — for 
Marie  de'  Medici,  widow  of  Henry  IV — modeled  after 
the  Pitti  Palace,  her  ancestral  home.  After  many 
vicissitudes,  the  palace  is  still  useful  as  the  Senate 
Chamber,  and  the  former  orangery  has  been  trans- 
formed, in  its  turn,  into  the  celebrated  Luxembourg 
Museum  of  Modern  Art,  painting  and  sculpture. 
After  an  artist  who  is  "hung"  here  has  been  dead 
ten  year*   his   paintings   are   added   to  the  Louvre 

[2S5] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 


collection  if  they  are  worth  while,  and  if  not — out 
to  the  provinces  with  them. 

Though  the  Pantheon  occupies  the  most  command- 
ing position  on  the  left  bank,  the  building  which 
is  easily  the  most  striking  and  conspicuous  is  the 
tremendous  Hotel  des  Invalides,  founded  by  Louis 
XIV.  It  is  the  oldest  and  most  magnificent  soldiers' 
home  in  the  world,  where  seven  thousand  braves  could 
be  accommodated.  When  the  handful  now  alive  there 
are  gone,  no  more  will  be  received,  and  the  whole 
vast  pile  will  be,  as  most  of  it  already  is,  only  a 
military  museum.  What  a  setting  for  a  dead  man's 
throne! 

Up  through  the  enormous,  park-like  Esplanade, 
that  stretches  away  for  more  than  a  quarter  of 
a  milp  toward  the  river,  in.  front  of  the  imposing 
square  fa9ade  you  go,  and  crossing  through  the 
Court  of  Honor,  with  everything  prepared  as  a  sol- 
emn approach,  you  stand  at  last  under  the  gilded 
dome  of  the  Invalides  church,  and  look  down  into  the 
circular  open  crypt  upon  the  tomb  of  Napoleon. 
Five  huge  blocks  of  dull  red  Finnish  porphyry  com- 
pose the  gigantic  sarcophagus,  massive  enough  for 
a  Pharaoh.  The  pavement  is  a  mosaic  laurel  wreath 
of  victory,  with  memorable  triumphs  writ  large  upon 
it,  while  about  the  crypt  stand  great  figures  sym- 
bolic of  the  Emperor's  greatest  successes,  and  six 
trophies — sets  of  stained  and  tattered  captured  bat- 
tle-flags— stir  the  most   sluggish  blood.      Yet  even 

here,  to  the  thoughtful,  there  may  come  Shakespeare's 

[  286  1 


HISTORIC    PARIS 


ringing  inquiry:  "0  mighty  Caesar,  hast  thou  sunk 
so  low?  Are  all  thy  triumphs,  conquests,  shrunk  to 
this  small  measure?" 

About  the  middle  of  the  third  century,  St.  Denis 
and  two  of  his  disciples  brought  Christianity  to 
Lutetia,  and  soon  became  its  first  martyrs.  Legend 
says  that  St.  Denis  walked,  carrying  his  head  in  his 
hands,  from  the  hill  of  Montmartre  to  a  spot  in* 
the  suburbs  where  he  wished  to  be  buried.  Over 
his  grave  one  of  the  great  abbeys  grew  up.  The 
church  as  we  see  it  to-day  is  the  result  of  many 
reconstructions,  and  is  specially  interesting  since  it 
determines  accurately  what  one  critic  calls  the  natal 
hour  and  the  birthplace  of  the  Gothic^  though  others 
claim  that  it  is  impossible  to  fix  the  origin  of  an 
architectural  style  by  any  single  building.  Almost 
all  of  the  Capetian  kings  were  buried  in  St.  Denis, 
among  them  Louis  XII  and  Francis  I,  in  superb 
tombs  as  rich  as  jewel  caskets. 

But  if  a  suburb  was  the  birthplace  of  the  Gothic, 
the  cramped  little  lie  de  Cite  was  its  nursery,  and 
the  stupendous  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  de  Paris  is 
the  model  and  foster-mother  of  many  more  beautiful 
churches  throughout  the  country.  The  general  ef- 
fect it  produces  is  heavy,  but  that  is  clearly  because 
the  Gothic  in  its  infancy  was  still  full  of  the 
robustiousness  of  the  parent  Romanesque.  Notwith- 
standing this,  the  great  structure  is  a  classic.  The 
sculptures  of  the  fa9ade  distinctly  show  the  transi- 

[287  J 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

tion  from  the  Romanesque  to  the  Gothic,  especially 
in  the  life  and  sentiment  of  the  figures. 

The  interior  is  disappointing  to  many  people  after 
the  greater  height  and  delicacy  of  some  of  its  de- 
scendants. Yet  one  cannot  help  but  be  impressed 
by  its  general  dignity  and  proportion.  In  1793  this 
Temple  of  Christianity  was  turned  into  a  Temple  of 
Reason,  a  great  mound  thrown  up  in  the  choir,  and 
a  shrine  built  upon  it,  inscribed  "To  Philosophy." 
If  you  would  see  the  orgies  that  desecrated  the 
Cathedral  during  that  period  of  insanity,  read  Car- 
lyle's  vivid  picture.  David's  song  of  the  heathen 
who  rage  and  the  people  who  imagine  vain  things 
never  had  a  stronger  exposition  than  in  this  world- 
center  of  culture  and  refinement.  And  then,  to  make 
the  sacrilege  all  the  more  ghastly,  Robespierre  him- 
self, some  six  months  later,  had  the  Cathedral  turned 
into  a  Temple  of  the  Supreme  Being,  to  recognize, 
as  he  put  it  himself,  "the  consoling  principle  of  the 
immortality  of  the  soul." 

Long  ago  the  tide  of  life  in  Paris  flowed  away 
from  the  cramped  little  He  de  Cite,  and  since  the 
fifteenth  century  the  Palace  of  Justice  has  occupied 
the  site  of  the  palace  of  Phillippe-Auguste,  parts  of 
the  round  towers  alone  remaining  of  his  construc- 
tion. The  interior  has  been  systematically  restored 
in  modern  times,  and  the  two  most  impressive  parts 
are  the  vast,  vaulted  Salle  des  Pas-Perdus,  the  former 
Grand  Salle  of  the  palace,  and  now  the  favorite 
meeting  place  of  the  lawyers  and  their  clients  before 

[288] 


HISTORIC    PARIS 


and  between  court  sessions ;  and  the  Cour  de  Cassa- 
tion, the  rich  and  handsome  civil  tribunal,  most  lav- 
ishly decorated  of  all  the  different  chambers.  Open- 
ing out  of  the  great  Pas-Perdus  hall  is  the  bloodiest 
room  in  the  world,  where  the  Revolutionary  tribunal 
condemned  so  many  to  the  guillotine — 2,742  all  told, 
including  Marie  Antoinette,  the  pitiful  widow  of 
"Citizen  Louis  Capet."  And  down  below  is  the  grim 
old  Conciergerie — a  prison  as  full  of  interest  and 
as  rich  in  bitter  memories  as  any  in  Europe — where 
the  poor  Queen  spent  those  black  months  before  her 
execution. 

On  the  whole  broad  page  of  France,  that  St.  Louis 
illuminated  so  royally  with  churches,  there  is  none 
so  wondrous  as  that  blazing  rubric  letter,  the  Sainte 
Chapelle,  the  chapel  he  built  to  enshrine  the  crown 
of  thorns  in  his  palace  on  the  Cite.  Surely,  though 
it  looks  so  fragile  standing  there  in  the  palace  en- 
closure, it  has  a  charmed  life,  since  it  passed  un- 
scathed through  the  Revolution  and  through  several 
fires  that  well-nigh  destroyed  the  palace.  A  pure  gem 
of  the  purest  and  loftiest  Gothic,  it  is  as  much  apart 
from  its  encircling  setting  of  massive  masonry  as  the 
diamond  is  apart  from  its  enclosing  gold. 

It  is  built  in  two  stories,  and  the  vaulting  and 
proportions  of  the  lower  chapel — for  the  retainers 
and  servants — are  very  beautiful,  the  polychromatic 
decorations  faithful  to  the  originals,  found  under  a 
coat  of  whitewash  at  the  time  the  building  was 
restored  by  Viollet-le-Duc,  about  1855.     Not  alone 

[289] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA  TO    SEA 

in  architecture  did  the  lovers  of  beauty  in  that  won- 
derful thirteenth  century  express  their  aspirations, 
but  by  brilliant  color  as  well ;  and  it  is  only  because, 
as  William  Morris  so  well  remarked,  "our  eyes  have 
become  so  atrophied  to  color  amid  our  drab  sur- 
roundings" that  "a  building  .  .  .  restored  in  some 
measure  to  its  ancient  splendor  .  .  .  dazes  us." 

The  single  vaulted  chamber  of  the  upper  chapel 
produces  an  enchanting  effect.  Here,  for  the  first 
time,  apparently,  stained,  traceried  windows  seem  to 
have  been  perfected,  and  the  structure  itself  has  been 
so  thoroughly  organized  that,  instead  of  mere  walls 
with  windows,  we  have  a  glorious  lantern  erected  for 
the  joy  of  its  own  display.  In  the  apse  is  still  pre- 
served part  of  the  tribune  where,  in  the  olden  days, 
the  holy  relics  were  exposed  in  a  rich  reliquary  of 
gold  glittering  with  precious  stones.  And  in  some  of 
the  panels  of  the  windows  St.  Louis  himself,  barefoot 
and  humble,  is  seen  bearing  the  precious  relics  from 
Sens  to  Paris. 

Standing  in  the  nave,  gazing  up  at  the  thousand 
paneled  windows,  that  glow  like  jewels  in  the  soft 
afternoon  sunlight  and  flood  the  empty  interior  with 
rebounding  waves  of  myriad  colors,  in  which  the  whole 
Bible  story  from  the  Creation  to  the  Apocalypse 
has  a  part,  your  mind  goes  back  instinctively  to  the 
dark  and  solemn  crypt  under  the  dome  of  the  Inva- 
lides,  and  to  him  who  slumbers  there.  Two  great 
monarchs,  each  a  mere  human  being — one  a  great 
warrior,  one  a  great  saint — one  leaving  behind  him 

[290] 


HISTORIC   PARIS 


hundreds  of  thousands  of  widows  and  orphans  and 
cripples,  and  a  somber  tomb ;  the  other  leaving  a 
record  for  constructive  statesmanship,  for  righteous 
dealing  at  whatever  cost,  and  a  blazing  monument 
to  something  higher  and  finer  than  mere  human 
egotism,  something  to  inspire  and  to  help  future 
generations,  so  long  as  man  has  eyes  to  see  and  to 
understand. 


[^il 


XXIV 

THE       SIREN       OF       THE       SEINE 

ALL  the  queer  things  in  which  Paris  abounds 
are  by  no  means  gathered  in  the  Latin 
Quarter,  and  in  a  small  square  near  the 
end  of  the  rue  St.  Honore  is  a  little  wine-shop  dedi- 
cated "To  the  Infant  Jesus."  The  ancient  iron 
grille,  to  which  riders  used  to  fasten  their  horses 
when  they  went  inside,  is  still  there,  worn  thin  at 
the  bottom  by  many  halters.  But  the  Child  and  the 
monogram  among  the  symbolic  vines  at  the  top  are 
freshly  gilded.  One  would  naturally  expect  that 
the  delight  of  the  pious  bourgeois  in  the  holy  Name 
for  shops  would  confine  itself  to  past  ages,  yet  in 
another  place  I  photographed  a  spick-and-span,  glar- 
ingly new  dairy  with  the  very  same  label. 

This  quarter  is  rich  in  suggestion.  Robespierre 
lived,  and  Moliere  was  born,  on  the  rue  St.  Honore. 
Not  far  away,  a  department  store  stands  on  the 
spot  where  the  Three  Musketeers  once  dwelt.  The 
Taveme  du  Saint  Esprit — the  Holy  Ghost — still  dis- 
penses the  good  spirit  of  old  to  its  patrons  here; 
and  the  church  of  St.  Roche,  which  has  the  finest 
baroque  fa9ade  in  Paris,  fronts  upon  the  same  street. 

In  its  pillars   and  walls   alike  are   still  visible  the 

[292] 


THE   SIREN    OF   THE    SEINE 

traces  of  the  "whiff  of  grapeshot"  Napoleon  fired 
at  the  royahsts  in  the  church  gardens.  Only  two 
years  before,  in  October,  1793,  the  church  steps 
were  the  favorite  rendezvous  of  the  rabble,  from 
which  to  hurl  insults  and  street  filth  at  the  tumbrils 
filled  with  victims  for  the  guillotine.  As  Queen  Marie 
Antoinette  passed  slowly  by,  a  woman  spat  into  her 
face.  For  a  moment  the  heroic  queen  lost  her  calm 
demeanor.  "This  vile  mob !"  she  cried  bitterly,  and 
turned  away. 

In  this  same  district  is  the  Palais  Royal,  built 
in  the  seventeenth  l^^J^Vn^torically  one  of  the 
most  interesting  buildings  in  Paris.  Philippe-Egalite 
lived  such  a  riotous  life  here  that  he  was  finally 
reduced  to  the  extent  of  surrounding  the  garden 
behind  the  palace  with  buildings,  which  were  leased 
to  shopkeepers,  gamblers  and  cafetiers.  The  court 
quickly  became  an  unsavory  resort,  thronged  with 
malcontents,  the  forum  of  revolutionary  agitation. 
One  of  the  agitators,  Camille  Desmoulins,  developed 
into  the  leader  of  the  Revolution,  calling  his  fellows 
to  arms  on  July  12,  1789,  in  the  Cafe  de  Foy,  under 
the  arcades.  It  looks  to-day  very  much  as  it  did 
then,  though  instead  of  the  malcontents  and  con- 
spirators you  find  children  at  play  under  the  eyes 
of  nurses  who  doze  in  the  sunshine.  And  the  statues 
are  different,  too.  The  most  noted  is  the  great 
Victor  Hugo,  by  Rodin,  a  figure  full  of  the  placid 
certainty  and  poise  of  age  and  wisdom  and  strength 
— naked,  like  Truth. 

[293] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

Close  to  the  entrance,  rising  from  the  bare  earth, 
stands  Boverie's  masterful  figure  of  Desmoulins. 
To  me  the  work  is  a  creation — and  it  was  produced 
in  19045!  It  shows  the  whole  spirit  and  resistless 
force  of  the  Revolution.  It  is  portraiture,  spiritual 
insight,  the  sympathy  and  understanding  of  a  blood 
brother  of  the  revolutionaries.  Desmoulins'  eyes  burn 
with  the  fanatic's  fire ;  his  face  is  cruel,  implacable. 
Like  his  hands,  it  displays  the  nervous  energy  so 
characteristically  French,  while  his  thin,  bitter  mouth 
is  roaring  out  his  will,  his  wishes,  his  ideas.  Was  he 
an  inspired  hero.'*  The  sculptor  has  not  told  us:  he 
has  given  us  the  greater  thing — the  genius  and  the 
genesis  of  the  Revolution  itself. 

Desmoulins'  greatest  achievement  was  his  first — 
the  destruction  of  that  horrible  prison,  the  Bastille. 
On  July  14,  1789,  a  rumor  spread  through  the  city 
that  the  fortress  was  about  to  bombard  the  quarter. 
The  people's  answer  was  decisive.  With  Desmoulins 
as  leader,  they  massacred  the  prison  governor  and 
his  handful  of  guards,  released  the  prisoners,  many 
of  whom  were  guiltless,  and  battered  the  Bastille 
into  a  shapeless  heap  of  stones.  The  fine  Column  of 
July  in  the  Place  de  la  Bastille  does  not,  however, 
commemorate  that  event  but  is  a  memorial  to  those 
who  fell  in  the  revolution  of  July,  1830.  At  the 
top  of  the  shaft,  Liberty  holds  the  torch  of  civiliza- 
tion and  the  broken  shackles  of  slavery. 

The  whirlwind  Desmoulins  blew  into  being  reaped 
part  of  its  harvest  in  the  immense  Place  du  Trone, 

[294] 


THE    SIREN    OF   THE    SEINE 

at  the  eastern  edge  of  the  citj,  where  Louis  XIV 
after  the  Peace  of  the  Pyrenees  sat  the  throne  to 
receive  the  homage  of  his  subjects.  More  than  thir- 
teen hundred  heads  did  the  knife  of  Dr.  Guillotine's 
infernal  machine  shear  away  here  before  the  blood- 
madness  cleared  from  the  eyes  of  France  and  men 
could  see  normally  again.  While  the  executions  were 
going  on,  and  the  bluest  blood  in  France  was  being 
spilled,  the  headless  bodies  were  taken  away  in  carts, 
stripped,  and  dumped  naked  into  ditches,  without 
stone  or  board  to  mark  the  spot.  The  location 
might  never  have  been  discovered  had  not  a  young 
woman  followed  her  father's  body  and  seen  where 
it  was  thrown.  To-day  the  spot  is  guarded  by  high 
walls  and  dark  cypress  trees,  and  you  may  only  look 
through  an  iron  grille.  And  in  the  adjacent  little 
cemetery  of  Picpus  no  one  can  be  buried  who  is  not 
a  descendant  of  the  victims.  Many  an  illustrious 
name  is  carved  upon  the  plain  stones — our  own  friend, 
the  Marquis  de  Lafayette,  lies  in  a  modest  tomb 
with  the  Stars  and  Stripes  floating  above  him.  It 
is  a  very  moving  spot,  and  our  chagrin  was  un- 
bounded when  the  concierge  compelled  us  to  leave 
everything  that  even  looked  like  a  camera  at  his  lodge 
before  going  inside. 

The  most  important  secular  building  in  Paris  is, 
of  course,  the  Louvre,  both  architecturally  and  on 
account  of  its  art  treasures.  The  marvel  of  the 
structure  is  not  its  beauty,  not  even  its  architectural 
qualities,  but  its  cyclopean  size.     It  grew  out  of  a 

[  295  ] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

moated  chateau  built  by  Philippe- Auguste ;  as  we 
see  it  to-day,  however,  it  dates  from  the  reign  of 
Francis  I,  and  later.  From  the  main  building,  sur- 
rounding the  Cour  du  Louvre,  part  of  which  incor- 
porated a  section  of  the  original  chateau,  wings 
stretch  away  to  the  west  in  block  after  block,  vast, 
lofty,  connected,  enclosing  great  gardens  and  cobbled 
cross  streets,  stopping  at  last  in  the  charming  gar- 
den where  the  Tuileries  Palace  once  stood,  completing 
the  enclosure  by  giving  it  a  fourth  side.  Built  by 
Catherine  de'  Medici,  the  Tuileries  was  sacked  more 
than  once  by  the  populace  in  their  rages,  but  it 
remained  for  the  Communards  to  destroy  it  in  1871. 
It  is  an  astonishing  thing  that  in  the  vast  central 
court  of  this  palace,  still  called  the  Place  du  Carrou- 
sel, a  congeries  of  ramshackle  old  houses  and  many 
little  streets  were  allowed  to  remain  until  the  time  of 
Napoleon  III.  What  a  picture  this  place  makes 
to-day — a  vast  garden,  long,  wide,  ribbed  with  as- 
phalt, bordered  and  dotted  and  splashed  with  brilliant 
flowers,  some  of  them  so  far  away  you  receive  only 
the  effect  of  a  tiny  bit  of  strong  color  in  the  fresh 
grass !  On  three  sides  tower  the  elaborate  walls,  with 
their  colossal  pilasters,  windows,  monograms  and 
ornamentation,  all  grimed  with  the  indescribable  reek 
of  a  great  city ;  on  the  other  side,  through  Napo- 
leon's beautiful  imitation  of  Septimus  Severus'  arch, 
the  gardens  of  the  lost  Tuileries  to  which  the  arch 
gave  entrance — gardens  that  stretch  out  clear  to 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde.    Far  in  the  distance,  truly 

[296] 


(U 

W3 


THE   SIREN    OF   THE    SEINE 

like  a  star  of  the  first  magnitude,  the  Arch  of  the 
Place  of  the  Star  looks  down  its  long  Eljsian  Avenue 
toward  you. 

To  the  constructive  municipal  spirit  of  the  Second 
Empire  we  owe  the  peerless  Place  de  la  Concorde. 
Place  of  Peace!  What  bloody  horrors  has  it  not 
seen,  what  heartbreak,  what  rivers  of  blood!  The 
heavy  knife  of  Guillotine  mowed  this  field  to  the 
ground,  in  a  harvesting  neither  France  nor  the  rest 
of  the  world  can  ever  forget.  And  other  bitter  things 
has  this  Place  of  Peace  been  compelled  to  witness — 
the  tramp  of  armed  men  in  1814  and  1815,  and  again 
in  1871,  when  the  dashing  German  hussars  mocked 
their  French  adversaries  by  waltzing  under  their 
very  noses  to  their  own  Uhlans'  music.  How  the 
Gallic  sentries  of  the  Tuileries,  not  yet  destroyed, 
must  have  gritted  their  teeth  at  such  a  spectacle! 
To  this  day  the  mourning  and  bitterness  of  the  whole 
people  keeps  the  statue  of  the  lost  city  of  Strasbourg 
here  draped  black,  and  garlanded  with  wreaths  of 
immortelles  that  feed  fat  the  national  passion  of 
resentment  for  a  loss  every  Frenchman  feels  confident 
will  some  day  be  recouped. 

But  what  does  the  world  care  for  that?  It  is 
the  Place  that  counts,  with  its  magnificent  fountains, 
its  great  obelisk  from  great  Rameses'  temple  gate, 
its  commanding  views  in,  every  direction  of  garden 
and  avenue,  of  bridge  and  palace — vistas  that  have 
made  it  famous  wherever  mankind  has  an  eye  for 
beauty. 

[297] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

One  thing  that  strikes  you  here  and  elsewhere 
in  Paris — indeed,  all  over  France — is  the  number 
and  mediocre  quality  of  statues  and  monuments  that 
everywhere  arrest  the  eye.  Appreciation  is  a  fine 
thing  enough,  but  when  it  takes  the  obtrusive  form 
of  innumerable  uninteresting  works  of  bronze  and 
marble  that  are  always  in  the  way,  you  wish  there 
were  some  distant  Picpus  where  they  could  all  be 
taken  out  and  dumped. 

The  peerless  collection  of  the  Louvre  requires 
an  encyclopaedia  all  to  itself,  and  the  only  word 
that  can  be  given  the  art-lover  here  is — go  and  see 
it.  Nor  is  this  the  only  collection  that  must  thus 
regretfully  be  passed  by.  Museums  in  Paris  are 
legion — I  know  of  more  than  forty — many  of  them 
housed  in  ancient  palaces  or  beautiful  mansions. 
One,  however,  must  be  mentioned  because  of  its  rela- 
tion to  the  art  of  all  France^ — the  Trocadero.  In 
its  comprehensive  collection  of  comparative  sculpture 
you  find  accurate  casts  that  display  the  evolution 
of  French  architecture  and  sculpture,  duplicates  of 
all  those  great  works  past  which  the  local  custodians 
in  the  provinces  make  you  hurry,  without  a  chance 
to  give  them  the  attention  they  deserve. 

Most  of  its  palaces  the  Republic  has  transformed 
into  museums,  not  only  in  Paris  itself,  but  also  in 
the  environs,  where  the  majority  were  built  after 
royalty  had  deserted  fair  Touraine,  finding  it  expe- 
dient to  be  in  or  near  the  capital.     There  are  Fon- 

tainebleau,  with  its  great,  low,  unimposing  chateau 

[298] 


THE    SIREN    OF   THE    SEINE 

and  Its  beautiful  forest ;  Versailles  of  the  quaint,  old- 
fashioned,  formal  gardens  and  fountains,  with  its 
shimmering  Glass  Salon,  where  Germany  became  a 
nation,  its  Trianons  and  Marie  Antoinette's  play- 
houses ;  Chantilly,  St.  Germain,  and  Malmalson,  so 
full  of  Josephine's  sad  memories. 

Along  one  side  of  the  Louvre  runs  Napoleon's 
fine,  broad  rue  de  Rivoli,  named  for  his  victory  of 
1797  over  the  Austrians,  and  built  solidly  of  Italian- 
looking  arcades.  The  great  Emperor  made  this  and 
his  other  new  streets,  similarly  named  after  triumphs 
— Pyramides,  Wagram,  Marengo,  Austerlitz,  and  so 
on — the  fashionable  quarter  of  the  city.  But  to-day 
fashion  is  not  so  much  in  evidence  on  the  rue  de 
Rivoh  as  the  shopkeeper,  the  guide  and  the  tourist. 
Often  you  hear  as  much  English  as  French  under 
the  wide  arcades,  from  visitors  who  idle  along,  look- 
ing into  the  windows  of  shops  full  of  cheap-looking 
jewelry,  chains  and  beads  and  pins  enough  to  deck 
out  the  women  of  all  creation.  But  though  this 
"junk"  looks  cheap,  it  isn't — the  merchants  of  Rivoli 
know  how  to  charge  as  well  as  their  more  pretentious 
brethren  of  the  rue  de  la  Palx.  Everything  is  on 
sale,  from  copies  of  paintings  in  the  Louvre  to  gloves 
with  square-ended  fingers — occasionally  a  finger  too 
small,  perhaps,  for  artistic  irregularity. 

Up  and  down  thunder  the  great  automobile  omni- 
buses, ground-shaking  contrivances,  as  swift  and 
murderous  as  they  are  fearsome  to  see  and  to  hear. 
Would  you  see  the  city,  do  not  take  them ;  patronize 

[299] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

the  slower,  humbler,  double-decked  tram,  and  ride 
on  the  imperiale,  which  is  high  enough  to  give  an 
excellent  and  safe  view-point.  And  the  noise!  New 
York's  roar  is  famous ;  so  is  the  dull  grind  of  Lon- 
don and  the  sharp  staccato  of  Madrid ;  but  the  noise 
characteristic  of  Paris  is  a  continuous,  high-pitched 
shriek,  in  which  the  agonizing  squeal  of  suddenly 
applied  brakes,  the  sirens  of  automobiles  and  the 
gritting  of  motors  play  a  prominent  and  nerve-rack- 
ing part. 

For  a  comprehensive  view  of  the  city,  however, 
go  up  the  Eiffel  Tower,  or  the  historic  Butte  Mont- 
martre,  with  its  brand  new  Romano-Byzantine  basilica 
of  the  Sacre  Coeur ;  and  then,  by  way  of  novelty,  try 
the  other  extreme,  and  plunge  dovvn  below  the  surface 
to  inspect  the  famous  sewers,  of  which  a  vast  network 
undermines  the  city,  their  total  length  about  nine 
hundred  miles ! 

When  Napoleon  came  to  the  throne  he  determined 
to  make  Paris  the  most  beautiful  city  in  the  world. 
Nothing  else  appealed  to  him  so  strongly  as  the 
mass  and  richness  of  the  Roman  style  of  architecture. 
It  was  monumental  and  gorgeous,  and  it  made  an 
appropriate  medium  of  expression  for  this  exponent 
of  the  new  spirit  of  Caesarism.  That  it  was  the- 
atrical probably  also  fitted  in  with  his  keen  apprecia- 
tion of  the  mob  spirit  he  was  always  considering. 
With  unerring  skill,  he  chose  that  lofty  spot,  the 
Place  de  I'Etoile,  for  his  colossal  Arc  de  Triomphe, 

so  marvelously  set  off  by  the  Avenue  of  the  Elysian 

[300] 


THE    SIREN    OF   THE    SEINE 

Fields  and  eleven  others  that  center  there.  Towering 
up  164  feet  into  the  air,  it  is  the  largest  as  well  as 
the  finest  arch  in  existence ;  and  among  the  great 
mass  of  sculptures  that  cover  every  side  of  the  Arc 
is  the  noble  and  spirited  relief  by  Rude,  showing  the 
rising  of  the  people  in  1792  to  the  clarion  summons 
of  the  fierce  Genius  of  War,  a  fiery  piece  of  realism. 

In  the  little  Place  d'lena,  not  far  away,  is  a 
simple  statue  of  our  own  Washington.  We  wonder 
what  he  thinks  of  that  sublime  piece  of  personal 
glorification. 

Napoleon's  other  arch,  in  the  Place  du  Carrousel, 
was  originally  crowned  by  the  great  bronze  horses 
brought  from  St.  Mark's  in  Venice.  The  amount 
of  loot  brought  home  by  this  imperial  brigand,  van- 
dal, or  whatever  else  you  may  choose  to  call  Napoleon, 
and  the  amount  of  damage  done  by  his  soldiery,  is 
appalling.  Everywhere  in  Spain  and  Italy  you  can 
follow  their  trail  by  the  wanton  mutilation  of  art 
works.  But  what  else  could  be  expected  of  a  people 
who  have  so  mutilated  their  own  works  of  art. J*  For- 
tunately, as  in  the  case  of  the  bronze  horses,  most 
of  the  plunder  was  returned  to  its  proper  owners, 
under  English  guard. 

One  of  the  most  superb  monuments  of  that  monu- 
mental day  is  the  church  of  the  Madeleine,  a  huge 
Corinthian  temple.  Napoleon  commenced  it  as  a 
temple  of  glory,  but  it  was  not  finished  until  1842 
under  Louis  Philippe,  as  a  church.  The  striking 
interior,  a  richly  decorated,  aisleless  nave  without  a 

[301] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

single  window,  but  perfectly  illuminated  from  the 
domed  ceiling,  somehow  lacks  the  churchly  atmos- 
phere. It  seems  more  a  place  of  entertainment,  and 
this  thought  is  carried  out  by  the  music  and  orches- 
tral performances  on  great  festivals. 

During  one  of  our  visits  to  Paris  we  attempted 
to  attend  the  midnight  Christmas  musical  service. 
At  ten  o'clock  we  not  only  could  not  get  in — we 
could  not  get  near  the  church  for  the  dense  crowds 
waiting  about  to  hear  what  they  could  through  the 
noise  of  the  streets. 

But  if  one  does  not  like  a  Roman  temple  for  a 
house  of  worship  he  need  not  stay  away  from  Paris 
for  that  reason.  Nearly  a  hundred  churches,  of 
every  size  and  style  and  age  and  condition,  afford 
the  nations  who  dwell  within  the  pleasure-seeking 
town  ample  opportunity  to  gratify  their  souls  as 
well  as  satisfy  their  jaded  senses;  and  he  can  take 
his  choice,  be  it  simply  for  a  house  for  worship,  for 
artistic  study,  or  for  mere  sesthetic  gratification. 

A  typical  example  of  modern  architecture  is  the 
Opera  House,  by  Charles  Garnier,  marvelously  rich 
in  marbles  and  gilding.  Yet  the  fa9ade  is  so  lacking 
in  details  it  would  be  monotonous  were  it  not  deco- 
rated with  groups  and  single  figures,  mere  additions 
on  pedestals  and  brackets.  Groups  that  stand  free 
and  clear  are  a  feature  of  the  age,  but  they  are  very 
poor  substitutes  for  the  elaborate  minor  parts  that 
in  their  coherence  contributed  to  the  great  and  noble 
structures  of  the  past. 

[  302  ] 


THE   SIREN    OF  THE   SEINE 

Through  gilded  gates  we  reach  the  grand  stair- 
case of  white  marble,  with  balustrades  of  rosso  antico 
and  an  Algerian  onyx  handrail.  Monolithic  marble 
columns,  great  ceiling  frescoes,  statues  and  mosaics 
add  to  the  richness  of  the  display.  It  is  the  largest 
theater  in  the  world,  covering  an  area  of  nearly  three 
acres,  but  the  interior  is  so  cut  up  into  gorgeous 
stairways,  foyers,  and  so  forth,  that  the  auditorium 
is  small,  the  boxes  narrow  and  shut  in,  and  no  such 
display  of  the  audience  is  possible  as  in  our  own 
Metropolitan. 

Before  the  Opera  spreads  the  Place  de  I'Opera, 
from  which  radiate  five  of  the  most  important  streets 
in  Paris :  straight  ahead  the  wide  Avenue  de  POpera, 
to  right  and  left  the  Grands  Boulevards,  and  on  either 
side  of  the  theater  two  other  wide  and  busy  thorough- 
fares. You  begin  to  appreciate  Baron  Haussmann's 
genius  here.  For  every  single  great  building  is  so 
placed  as  to  be  commanded  from  as  many  different 
points  as  possible,  and  every  street  laid  out  only 
after  considering  how  its  course  and  character  and 
junctions  with  other  streets  will  affect  the  appearance 
of  the  city. 

From  the  Madeleine  to  the  Bastille,  in  a  great  semi- 
circle, sweeps  that  main  artery  of  Parisian  gaiety, 
the  Grands  Boulevards,  where  the  ebullient  tide  of 
life  flows  freely  from  sundown  to  midnight.  It  is 
the  typical  French  street  scene,  on  a  grander  and 
more  lavish  scale  than  in  the  provinces,  with  more 
glare  and  glitter.    And  what  a  setting  for  the  daily 

[303] 


FRANCE    FROM    SEA   TO    SEA 

guard-mount  of  wealth,  fashion  and  beauty  the  mag- 
nificent Champs  Eljsees  makes,  in  its  arrowy  flight 
uphill  from  the  Concorde  to  the  Etoile  and  the 
Arch!  Automobiles  and  carriages  in  the  roadway, 
pedestrians  filling  the  shady  sidewalks  and,  not  so 
infrequently  as  to  attract  unusual  wonder,  a  buzzing 
aeroplane  overhead  in  the  gray  sky.  Then,  too, 
there  is  the  Bois. 

Yes,  taking  it  all  in  all,  there  is  no  gainsaying  it, 
Paris  is  a  wonderful,  a  beautiful  city,  truly  the  Siren 
of  the  Seine;  and  most  of  those  who  know  her  are 
ready  to  echo  Montaigne,  in  Florio's  translation: 

"/  loz}e  Mr  so  tenderly  that  even  Mr  spottSy  Mr 
blemishes,  and  Mr  warts  are  deare  unto  me,^^ 


liA  FIN 


[304] 


SOME  GOOD  BOOKS  ON  FRANCE 

WHILE  it  is  impossible  to  name  all  the  many 
excellent  books  available  to-day  on 
France,  there  are  several  so  conspicu- 
ously meritorious  in  their  various  fields  as  to  be  well 
worth  notice.     A  few  of  these  follow: 

Cook,  Theodore  A.  "Old  Provence" ;  "Old  Touraine" ; 
"Rouen."  These  three  books  are  both  very  valu- 
able and  delightful  from  cover  to  cover ;  full  of 
historical  and  other  interest. 

Allen,  Percy.  "Impressions  of  Provence"  ;  "Burgun- 
dy: The  Splendid  Duchy."  The  former  book  is 
one  of  the  most  charming  pieces  of  interpretative 
writing  that  has  been  produced  on  France,  brim- 
ming over  with  sympathy,  humor,  legend  and 
history.  Burgundy,  in  the  nature  of  things,  has 
not  quite  the  same  charm,  but  is  a  fine  piece  of 
work. 

Adams,  George  B.  "Growth  of  the  French  Nation." 
The  best  short  history  I  know  in  English ;  a  very 
valuable  book  indeed. 

Barker,  E.  H.  "France  of  the  French."  An  excel- 
lent and  dispassionate  statement  of  the  France 
that  can  be  known  at  first  hand  only  through 
long  acquaintance  and  residence. 

[305] 


FRANCE   FROM   SEA   TO    SEA 

Okej,  Thomas.  "Paris."  One  of  the  Medieval  Towns 
series.  Like  Mr.  Cook's  "Rouen,"  this  book  is 
interesting  from  cover  to  cover,  full  of  delightful 
sketches  of  every  sort  in  which  the  siren  city 
is  so  rich. 

Haggard,  D.S.O.,  Lieut.-Col.  A.  C.  P.  "The  France 
of  Joan  of  Arc."  Any  lover  of  the  tragic  story 
of  the  Maid  of  Orleans  will  find  it  here  told  with 
a  wealth  of  detail,  and  a  setting  so  comprehensive 
and  vivid  as  to  give  it  new  life,  freshness  and 
value. 

Miltoun,  Francis.  Mr.  Miltoun's  lengthy  series  of 
books  dealing  with  the  different  provinces,  castles 
and  chateaux,  and  cathedrals  of  France  are  too 
familiar  to  require  any  comment.  They  can  be 
found  in  practically  all  the  public  libraries  of 
the  larger  cities. 

Besides  all  these  there  is  a  host  of  other  works, 
both  for  general  reading  and  reference,  which  make 
it  easy  to  take  up  almost  any  phase  of  French  life 
or  history.  Among  the  most  valuable  of  the  refer- 
ence works  will  be  found  Ruskin's  studies  of  French 
architecture,  Fergusson's  history  of  architecture, 
Luebke's  history  of  art,  Freeman's  sketches  and  his 
Norman  Conquest  of  England;  and  in  French,  of 
course,  Viollet-le-Duc's  Dictionnaire  Raisorme  is  in- 
valuable, while  there  are  local  publications  by  the 
score  issued  by  antiquarian  and  other  societies  that 

yield  much  material  of  importance. 

[306] 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Abbeville,  25-35 
Ab61ard  and  H61oise,  11 
Abbeys  : 

Citeaux,   61 

Cluny,  61 

lies  des  Lerins,   127 

Jumieges,   262 

Mont  St.  Michel,  257-260 

Ste.  Genevieve,  28i 

St.  R6mi,  54,  55 
Adams,  Prof.  Geo.  B.,  305 
^duii,   The,   71 
Agde,"  "Black,  179 
Agricultural  Merit,  Order  of,  70 
Aigues-Mortes,  176-178 
Aitre  St.  Maclou,  271 
Aix-en-Provence,    11,    139,    140- 

142 
Aix-les-Bains,  105,  107,  108,  112 
Albane,   Cour  d',   269 
Allen,  Percy,  305 
Alps,  The,  2,  91,  94,  107,  108 
Alyscamps,  Cemetery,  148-150 
Amboise,  214-216 
Amboise,    Cardinals    George    I, 

II,  of,  263,  267,  268,  274 
Ambrose,   St..   88 
Amiens,   36-49,  56,  266 
Amienois,  The,  37,  39 
Ampere,  electrician,  88 
Amphitheatres  : 

Aries,   146,   147 

Nlmes,   171,   172 

Perigueux,  194 
Ampoule,   The   Ste.,   57 
Andely,    Petit.   275-277 
Andre,  Fort  St.,  164,  166,  167 
Angers,  City  of,  227-231 
Angevin   (style).  203,  231 
Anjou,    Province    of,    210,    227, 

230,  231 
Anne  of  Austria,  203 
of  Brittany,  211,  215,  216, 

232,  233 
Annot,  Roeks  near,  118 
Aqueduct  (s),  Roman,  73,  142 

176 


[307 


Aperitif,   53,   110,   111 

Arc  de   TEtoile    (de  Triomphe), 

297,   300,   301,   304. 
Aries,  9,  142,  145-154,  195 
Arlesiennes,   145,  146,  151,  152, 

153,  154 
Arvemi,  The,  72 
Attila,  70 

Aubert.  Bishop,  St.,  260 
Aucassin  and  Nicolette,  168 
Augustodunum — See    Bibracte 
Augustus,    Gate    of,    at    Nimes, 

174 
Automobile  trips,   104-107,   209, 

254,  261 
Autun,   71,   72,   92 
Auvergnot,    (style),  The,  73,  79 
Auvergne,    Old   province   of,    74, 

75,  76 
Avalanches,  105 
Avignon   (Avenio),  158-168 
Avranches,  257,  260 

Baggage,  4,  5,  6 

Balue,  Cardinal  de  la,  212 

Baou,  Crag  of,  121 

Bar,    Le,    Town   and   people   of, 

124 
Barker,  E.  H.,  305 
Bartholdi,  sculptor,  95,  96 
Basse    Ville    (Low    Town) — See 

Boulogne 
Basselin,     Olivier     (Apology    of 

Cider),  250 
Bastille.  Fall  of  the,  294,  303 
Bathing,  18,  75 
Baume.  Cave  of  Ste.,  139 
Bayard,  Chevalier,  22,  102 
Bayeux,   254.  255 
Bayeux  Tapestry,  The,  255 
Beatification    of    Joan    of    Arc, 

275 
Beaucaire.  Castle  of,  168 
Beaune,    65-70 
Bed.   Breton,   246 
Beggars,  78,  242,  243 
Bells,  Personality  of,  28,  266 

] 


INDEX 


B§n6zet,    St.     (and    bridge    of), 

163,  164,  165 
Beurrl&re,  La,  16 
Beziers,  City  of,  179,  180 

,  Count  of,  176 

,  Massacre  of,  180 

Bibles,  Stone,  37-42 

Bibracte   (Mt.  Beuvray),  71,  72 

Bicycles  (and  riding),  7,  8,  261, 

262 
Bignon,  Mile.,  26 
Bigoudens   (bigoudens),  241-243 
Binions  (Breton  pipes),  286,237 
Blois,  216-218 
Bluebeard — See  Champtoce 
Blue  Shore    (Cote  d'Azur) — 8ee 

Boat,  Travel  by,  on  rivers,  etc., 

6.  261,  262 
Bohier,    Thomas   and    Catherine 

de,   219 
Bon   S^cours,   Hill   of,   275 
Bouillon,  Count  Godefray  de,  20 
Boulevards,  The  Grands,  303,  304 
Boulogne-sur-Mer,  13-24 
Boulogne,  Counts  of,  19,  20 

,  Walls  of,  19,  20 

Bourges,   75,   223-226 
Bourges,"  "King  of — See  Charles 

VII 
Bourget,  Lake,  107 
Bourgth6roulde,  Maison,  274 
Boverie,  sculptor,  294 
Braz,  M.  Anatole  le,  38 
"Breads,"  91,  92 
Breton(s),   232,   234,   235,   243 
Breze,  Due  de.  Tomb  of,  268 
Brieue,  St.,  244-246 
Briton — See  English 
Brittany,  Old,  11,  20,  232,  233, 

240,   242,    244,   258 
Brougham,  Lord,   126 
Brummel,   George    (Beau),  253 
Bruno,    St.,   106 
Bull-fights,  155,  156,  171,  172 
Burgundian  (style),  The,  61,  64, 

92 
Burgundians,  Int.  i,  ii :  61,  64 
Burgundy,  Dukes  of,  62 

,  Tombs  of,  63 

Burgundy,   Old,   56,   61 
Butchers'  Guild  of  Limoges,  199 
Butter  Tower,  The,  267 
Byron's,  Lord,  anathema,  16 
Byzantine   (style),  The,  71,  90, 

193 

Cabs,  118 

Caen.     11,     250,    251-253,     259, 
261 


[308] 


Caesar,    31,   80,   167,   287 
Caf6s,  9,  10,  53,  77,  88,  89,  93, 

94,   110,  263,  293 
Cafetiers,  53,  293 
Cage  for  prisoners,  212 
Calvaries,  244 
Calvin  el  pore,  185 
Calvinist(s),  102,  195,  251,  266 
Camargue,  The,  154,  155,  171 
Campbell,  Thos.,  20 
Campi    Putridi — See    Pourri^res 
Canals,  The,  1,  7,  31,  174,  177, 

179,  187,  261 
Cannes,  126-128,  135 
Capet,  Capetian(s),  Int.  iii ;  54, 

287    289 
Caps,  'women's,  9,  16,  23    152 
Carcassonne,   178,   180,  181 
Caricatures — See  Sculptures 
Carlovingian(s)    [and   dynasty]. 

Int.  iii;  47,  48,  249,  266 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  on  Paris,  288 
Carrousel,   Place  du,  296 
Cartier,  Jacques,  247 
Cathedrals : 

Aix-en-Provence,  141,  142 

Albi,   188-190 

Amiens,  37-42 

Angers,  231 

Aries,  150,  151 

Autun,  71 

Bayeux,  254,  255 

Boulogne-sur-Mer,  14-20 

Bourges,   225-227 

Clermont-Ferrand,  79 

Coutances,  256 

Dijon,  64 

Grenoble,   104 

Limoges,   197,  198 

Lyon,  92 

Nevers,  73 

Paris,  48,  287,  288 

Perigueux,   192-194 

Poitiers,  203,  204 

Quimper,   240 

Reims,  55-60 

Rouen,   263,  265,   266-269 

Soissons,   47 

Toulouse,  185,  186 

Tours,  209 

Vannes,  235 

Venice,  193 
Cattle-markets,   245 
Caubert,  Mt,  31 
Cave-dwellings,  208 
Caves    (wine),    50,    51 
Celts,    The,    Int.    i,    ii,   71,   234, 

241 
Cette,  179 
Chamb^ry,  105,  108-112 


INDEX 


Champagne,   50-52,   61 
Champtoce      (Bluebeard),     231, 

232 
Chantilly,   299 
Chapelle,  Sainte,  289-291 
Charlemagne,   266 
Chartreuse,  La  Grande,  104-107 
Chateaubriand,    219,    248 
Chateau-Chinon,  70,  71 
Chateaux  : 

Amboise.  214-216 

Azay-le-Rideau,   220,   221 

Barri&re,  195 

Blois,   216-218 

Chambord,  218,  219 

Champtocg,  231,  232 

Chantilly,  299 

Chantillon,  108 

Chenonceaux,  219,  220 

Chinon,  212-214 

Commerce,  50 

Evolution    of    the,    206,    218, 
221 

Fontainebleau,  298 

Gaillard,  275-277 

Josselin,  240 

Loches,   210-212 

Malmaison,  299 

Nantes,  232,  233 

of  Touraine,  11,  206,  et  seq. 

Paris   (Louverle),  296 

Plessis-les-Tours,   208 

Rouen  (Tower),  274 

St.  Germain,  299 

Versailles.   299 
Cherbourg,  13,  255 
Chevlas-la-BuissiSre,  Le,  102 
Chimeras,  59,  60 
Choir,  Importance  of,  27,  38 
Choir-stalls,   etc.,   40,   138,  185 
Church,  The,  Int.  iv  ;  182,  188, 

202,   203,   221,   242,   251,   281 
Churches  : 

Abbeville,  St.  Gilles,  27 

St.  S^pulcre,  27,  28 
St.  Wulfran,  26,  27 

Aix-en-Provence,  St.   Sauveur, 
141,  142 

Aries,     St.    Anne     (Museum), 
148 

Avignon,    N.     D.     des     Doms, 
162,  163 

Avignon,    St.    Pierre,    163 

Beaune,   Notre  Dame,   66 

Bourges,   St.   Trinity,  231 

Caen,  St.  Etienne,  250 
"      St.  Pierre,  251 
"       St.  Trinite,   250,   251 

Clermont-Ferrand,   St.   Pierre, 
78 


Clermont-Ferrand,    N.    D.    du 

Port,  79 
Coutanees,   St.   Nicolas.    256 

St.  Pierre,  256 
Dijon,  St.  Michel,  64 
Grasse,  N.  D.  de  Podio,  124 
Grenoble,  St.  Andre,  101 

St.  Laurent,    103 
lies   des   L§rins,    St.    TrinitS, 

131 
Laon,    Notre   Dame,   48 
Le    Portel,    23 
Limoges.   St.  Michel,   199 
Loches,  St.  Ours,  210,  211 
Lyon,    St.   Bonaventure,   97 
"       N.  D.  de  Fourviere,  87, 
90,  91 
Lyon,    St.  Martin  d'Ainay,  95 
Mont    St.    Michel,    St.    Pierre, 

259 
Nevers,  St.  Etienne,  73 
Paris,  Sacre  Coeur,  300 

St.  Etienne-du-Mont,283 
"      St.  Julien-le-Pauvre,282 
"       St.  Roche,  292,  293 
"      Sorbonne,  284 
"      Madeleine,  301,  302,  303 
PSrigueux,  St.  Etienne,  194 
Poitiers,  N.  D.  la  Grande,  203 
St.  Hilaire,   202 
St.  Jean,  201,  202 
Ste.  Radegonde,  202, 
203 
Rouen,  St.  Maclou,  270.  271 
St.  Ouen,  269,  270 
St.  Patrice.  St.  Pierre- 
du-Chastel,  St.  Vincent,  St. 
Andr6,  272,  273 
Rovat   (fortified  Benedictine), 

83,  84 
St.  Lo,   Notre  Dame,  256 
St.  Maximin,  138,  139 
Ste.'s-Maries-de-la-Mer,       156, 

157 
Sisteron,    Notre    Dame,    114, 

115 
Soissons,   St.  Jean-des-Vignes, 
46 
Churches  debased,  245,  272,  273 
Cider,    250 

Cistercians   (C.-style),  131,  150 
Cite,  lie  de,  280,  287,  288 
Clermont-Ferrand,  76-83 
Climate — -See  Weather 
Cloche    (bell  glass),   8,   9 
Coeur.   Jacques,   223,   224 

-,  House  of,  223-225 


Coliseum,  147 

Colorado,  Canon  of  the,  1 

Communards,  The,  296 

[309] 


INDEX 


Concorde,  Place  de  la,  296,  297, 

304 
Conductors,  R.R.,  5,  6 
Consignee — See  Baggage 
Constance,  Tower  of,  177,  178 
Constantine,  55,  150 
Cook,     Theodore     A.     (quoted), 

216,  305 
Corks,  Discovery  of,  52 
Coronations,   54,  55,   57 
Corsairs,   130,   177,   192 
Costumes,  241-243 
Cote  d'Or  (Golden  Side),  61-74 
Cotentin  Peninsula,  255 
Coutances,  256 
Crau,  The,  143,  144 
Cr6cy,  Battle  and  town  of,  31-34 
Croux,  Porte  du,  73,  74 
Crusade (s),    27,   161,    175,   178, 

180,  182 
Customs  regulations,  3 
Cyr,  St.  (Saint  Cyrus),  73 


Dance,  Breton  folk,  236,  237 
Dauphine,  9,  98,  101,  105 
David    d' Angers,    sculptor,    228, 

285 
David,  Madame,  103,  104 
Dea,  Bona  (Good  Goddess),  148 
Debit  des  vins — See  Wineshop 
Delorme,  architect,  88 
D6nis,  St.    {and  church),  287 
Dernier  Sou,  Le,  20,  21 
Desert  (s),  1,  143,  144,  154,  155 
Desert,  Le,  106 
Desmoulins,    Camille,   293,   294 

,  Statue  of,  294 

Dickens,   19 

Dijon,   City  of,   62-65 

Dinard   (resort),  248 

Diogenes'  tub,   173,  174 

Dog-power,  10,  30,  31,  137,  231 

Dolmen  (s),   238 

Domes  of  Auvergne,  76,  79,  83 

Dominican  martyrs,  138 

Donjon  at  Loches,  212,  225 

"Dosage"   (champagne),  51,  52 

Douarngnez,  243,  244 

Dove   of   the   Holy   Spirit,   107 


Bchiquier    (High   Court),   274 

Eiffel  Tower,  300 

Elys^es,     Avenue    des    Champs, 

297,   300,  304 
Emperors  mentioned,  Roman,  88 
Enamel-making,  196,  197 
England,"      "Conquest     of — See 

Bayeux  Tapestry 

[3 


English   (and  -men),  15,  22,  23, 

34,    35.    126,    153,    260,    275, 

276,  299 
English  :  Possessions  in  France, 

Int.  iv 
Entremont,  St.  Pierre  d',  107 
Entrevaux.  118-121 
Equiben,    24 
Est^rel  Mountains,  127 
fitang(s),  143,  178,  179 
Everard,      Bishop     of     Amiens, 

Tomb  of,  40 

Farming,  8,  9,  86,  120 

Feet,   French,   111 

F61ibre(s),  161,  162 

Fergusson's   architecture,   306 

Feudal  system,  Int.  iii 

Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold,  The, 

274 
Finistere,    Departement   of,   241 
Firmin,   St.,  martyr,  37,   39,  41 
Fishermen   and  women,   15,   16, 

17 
Fishing,  7,  15,  16,  24,  243,  277, 

279 
Fishmarket     at     Boulogne,     15, 

16,  18 
Flamboyant      (style),     26,     27, 

254,  267 
Flandrin,    painter.    88 
F16che  (arrow-spire),  37,  44 
Flemish-Gothic   (style).  The,  67 
Fontainebleau,   298 
Fountain  (s),   9,   10 
France,  lie  de.  Int.  iii 
Franks     (Frankish),    The,    Int. 

i,    ii,    iii,   iv ;    36,   54,   61,   62, 

249,  280 
Freeman,  E.  A.,  57,  306 
Fr^jus,   135 
Fulk,  Black,  of  Anjou,  210,  214, 

228 
Funerals,  78 

Gardening  (petite  culture),  8,  9 
Gargoyles,  59,  64,  65,  187,  217 
Garnier,  Charles,  architect,  302, 

303 
Garter,  Incident  of  the,  90 
Gates    of     Autun     (St.     Andr§, 

and  d'Arroux),  71,  92 
Gatien,  St.,  Bishop  (and church), 

209 
Gaul,    Int.    Ii  :   61.    72,   130.   147 
Gautier,      Theophile      (quoted), 

189 
Geneva,  Lake,  94 
Genevieve.    Ste.,    11,    280,    281, 

283,  284,  285 
10] 


INDEX 


Genie  Nationale,  Source  of,  Int.  i 
Geoflfroy,     Bishop     of     Amiens, 

Tomb  of,  40 
Germain,    St.,    299 
German  (s),    Germanic,    36,    46, 

89,  203,   234.  297 
Gipsies,  117,  118,  155,  156,  208 
Girl  conductors,  164,  165 
Gloves    (g.-making),   103,   104 
Goatherd   (goats).  The  musical, 

76 
Goethe    (quoted K  170 
Gorge  of  the  Wolf,  122 
Gothic    (style J,    26,    37,    39,    47, 

48,    63,    64,    67,    71,    92,    138, 

165,   166,   189,   198,   205,  216, 

221,  231,   240,   252,  254,   267, 

270,  273,  274,  287,  288 
Goujon,  Jean,  sculptor,  217 
Granada   (Spain),  100,  208 
Grasse,  3,  121,  123-126 
Greeks,    The,    Int.    i,    ii ;    134, 

145,  147 

Gregory  of  Tours,  209 

Greenaway.  Kate,  98 

Grenoble,   City  of.   98,  100-104 

Guesclin,  Constable  Bertrand 
du.    21 

Guillotine,  Dr.  (and  the  guillo- 
tine),  96,   191,   295,   296 

Guise,  Due  de,   214,   216 

Haggard,    D.    S.    O.,    Lieut.-Col. 

A.   C.   P.,  306 
Hairdresser,   45 
Haussmann,    Baron,    303 
Haussmannizing  Paris,  278,  279, 

303,    304 
Havre,  Le,  261.   262 
Hercules,  143,  198 
Hilaire,    St.,    Bishop    (and 

church),    202 
Hoffreingue,  Abbe,  20 
Honorat,  lie  and  Monastery  of, 

127,  130-133.  135 
Horloge,  The  Grosse,  265,  266 
Hortillonages,    Les,    43,    44 
Hostel    Dieu,    The,    at    Beaune, 

66-69 
Hotel    proprietors,    2,    263,    264, 

265,   277 
Hotels    (inns,   hostelries).   2,   3, 

146,  195.    196.    263,    277 
Hourticq,    M.    Lanis,    critic,    48, 

258 
Houses,   Names  of,   29,   54,   274 
Hubert,   St.    (and  chapel),   215, 

216 
Hugo.    Victor.    285 
,  Statue  of,  293 

[31 


Huguenot(s),  214,  215,  256,271 
Hundred    Years'    War,    33,    34, 
276 

Iberians,  The,   Int.   i 

lies    des    L6rins,    127,    130-133, 

135 
Invalides,    Hotel   des,   286,    287, 

290 
"Invasion  of  England,"  21 
Ireland.    130 
Irenseus,  St.,  88 
Italy,  Fountain  in,  9 

Janin,  M.  Jules   (quoted),  250 

Jeanne,    Baby,    70 

Jeanne    d'Arc    (Joan    of    Arc), 

11,    213.    214,    223,   263,    265, 

273,  274,  275 
Jeannet-la-Gaude,    St.,    121 
Jesus,"    Caf6    of    the    "Infant, 

292 
Jewelry  of  Clermont,   85 
John  the  Baptist,  41,  55 
John   of    Bohemia,    Blind   King, 

35 
Jouglar(s),  153,  160,  161 
Juggernaut    (gambling),  129 
July   14th.   207 
Jupiter,    143,    183 
Justice,    Palace    of,    at    Rouen, 

273,  274 
,   Palace  of,   at  Paris,  288, 

289 

Kemper — See  Quimper 
Kings  of  England : 
Edward   III,    35,    276 
Henry    II,    Plantagenet,    200, 

212 
Henry    VIII.    274 
Richard    Coeur    de    Lion,    161 
William  of  Normandy,   250 
Kings  of  France  : 
Charles    III,    249 
Charles  V,   The   Wise,   Int.   v 
Charles  VI,   272 
Charles   VII,  The  Well-Served, 

Int.   iv;   52,  210,  213,  223, 

225 
Charles  VIII,   211,  215,   232 
Charles    X.    57 
Clovis,     36.    37,    45,    54,     55, 

57,    61,    202.    209,    280 
Dagobert   I.   21 
Francis  I.  29,   215,  216,  218, 

233,  274,  287 
Francis  II,  214 
Henry  III.  216 
Henry   IV,   285 

I] 


INDEX 


Louis  IX,  St.  Louis,  Int.   iv  ; 

176-178,   284,   290,   291 
Louis   XI.    Int.    iv;    208,    209, 

211,  212,  225,  259 
Louis  XII,  211.  217.  232,  268 
Louis  XIV,   Grand  Monarque, 

Int.    iv;    96,    166,    286,    295 
Louis  XV,  174,  175 
Louis  XVI,   289 
Louis  XVIII,  21 
Louis-Ptiilippe,   301 
Pliilip  III,  177 
Philippe-Auguste,       Int.      iv ; 

206,  274,  275,  276,  288,  296 
Philippe-Ie-Bel,   163,    165 
Kingsley,  Rev.  C.    (poem),  17 

Lafayette,  Marquis  de,  295 

Lallement,    Hotel,   225 

Laon,  47-49 

Languedoc,     Province    of,     181, 

182 
Laundress-Saints,    157 
Laval,  Countess  Jeanne  de,  141, 

228 
Ledieu,  historian,  28 
Legends    (myths,    fables,    etc.), 

11,  73,  132,  133,  137,  138,  231, 

232,    260 
Legion  of  Honor  instituted,  21 
Lemps,    Grand,    99 
Lesdiguigres,  Due  de,  102 
Levantine  commerce,  192,  193 
Liberte,  Fraternity,  E  g  a  1  i  t  e  , 

Int.  V 
Ligurians,  The,  Int.  i ;  134 
Lily     and     Rose,     Meaning     of 

(Amiens),   39 
Limoges,    195-200 
Lo,    St.,    256 
Loches,  210-212 
Locmariaquer,  238-240 
Louis,   lie  de   St.,   280 
Louvre  Museum,  255,  285,  295- 

297,  298 
Luebke,   Dr.,   art   critic,   26,   59, 

306 
Lutetia — See  Paris 
Luxembourg,    Palace    and    Gar- 
dens,   285 
Lyon,   City  of,   86-97,   98 

McGibbon,  author,  148 
Magdalen,   St.  Mary,   139 
Magne,    Tour    de,    175 
"Maison  Carrie,"  The,  172,  173 
Malmaison,    299 
Malo,  St.,  247,  248 

,  arms  of,  248 

,  odors  of,  247,  248 

[3 


Malo,   street-cleaning  dep't,  247 

,   tides  at,   248 

,  watchdogs  of,  248 

Man§cauterie,  92 
Mannequin   in   strejgt,   45 
Marguerite,    Ste.,    lie   and   Con- 
vent  of.    127,    130-133 
Marie     Antoinette,      289,      293, 

299 
Marie-Claire     (  w  om  an,     and 

novel),  252 
Marius,      Roman     consul,     139, 

140 
Markets,    29,    30,     44,    92,    93, 

269 
Marriages,     Breton,     235,     236, 

237 
Marseilles,    193 

Marthe,  Ste.  (and  Tarasque),169 
Martin,  St.,   soldier,  37,  209 
Marvel,   The.    259 
Matilda,  Duchess,  of  Normandy, 

251,  252,  254 
Mattress-makers,    198 
Maximin,  St.,  136-139 
Meals   (food,   and  ordering),   94 
Medici,  Catherine  de',  126,  214, 

216,   219.   296 
Medici,  Marie  de',  285 
Mediterranean,    The,    1,    7,    129, 

130,   177,    179 
Megalithic    monuments.    Int.    1 ; 

12,   238 
Meissonier,  painter,  88 
Menhir(s),    238 
Mercury,   Temple  of,   82 
Merovingian      (dynasty),      The, 

Int.   ii;  21,  266 
Michael,  the  Archangel,  260 
Michel,  Mont  St.,  257-260 
Michael,  Order  of  Chevaliers  of 

St.,  259 
Millinery  on  Cathedral,  245 
Miltoun,    Francis,    306 
Mirabeau,    285 
Mistletoe.   209 

Mistral,  Frederic,  poet,  153,  162 
Moli&re,    292 
Montaigne   (quoted),  304 
Monte  Carlo,  129,  130 
Montee  des  Chazeaux,  91 
Montfort,   Count  Simon  de,  182 
Montmartre,  287,   300 
Morbihan,  D#partement  of,  234, 

238 
Morris,    William    (quoted),    290 
Morvan,  The,  70-72 
Morvandeaux,  The,  70,  71 
Motto  of  France — See  LiherU 
Mourning,  Children  in,  204 
12] 


INDEX 


Muller,  A  Maud,  69 
Mustard  and  gingerbread,  62 

Najac,  191,   192 
Nantes,  193,  232,  233 
Napoleon    I,    Emperor,    14,    88, 

255,   286,   290,   293,  296,  300, 

301 
Napoleon    III,    296 
Napoleon's  egotism,  21,  22,  255, 

301,    302 
Narbonne,   180,    193 
Neptune,  143 

Nevers,  City  of,  72-74,  75 
Nice,   121 

Night-life  of  Lyon,  89,  90 
Nimes,  170-175,  195 
Norman (s).  The,  250,  277,   279 
Normandy,    Dulce    of.    Int.    iii  ; 

249 
Normandy,     Old,     11.     13,     250, 

253,   254,   255,   256,   258,   277 
Northmen,     The,     Int.     i;     249, 

250,  257,  262,  277 

Odo,     Bishop,     of     Normandy, 

254     255 
O'Key',  Thomas,  306 
Opera  House,  The,  302,  303 
Opportunity   for  greatness.   Int. 

vi 
Orange,  Roman  ruins  at,  167 
Orleans,   214 
Oxen  memorialized,  49 

Palais  Royal,  293,  294 
Papyrus,  52,  53 
Pardon,  The  Breton,  241-243 
Paris  :  2,  13,  21,  142.  143,  182, 
223,  278-304. 
Characteristics  of,   278-280 
Colors  of,  280 
Counts    of,    241-243 
Latin  Quarter,  281,  282,  292 
Monuments,     286,     287,    288, 

298,    300 
Museums,  280,  283,  285.   298 
Noise,    characteristic,    300 
Palaces,   293,   296.   297 
Students,  281,  282 
Transportation       means     in, 

299    300 
Vitality    of,    in    trouble,    278, 
279 
Parks,  103.  174,  175,  182 
"Parthenon    of     French     Archi- 
tecture," 37 
Pascal,   Bloise.   physicist,  83 
Pastry    (patisserie).   25,  26 
Pasty-faced  children,  26,  92 

[3 


Patois   (different),  15,   44,   114, 

162,   239 
Patrick,    St..    130 
People,  Common,  Int.  v 
People,     Provincial    characteris- 
tics of,  11,  278 
Perfume  (s).  2,  3,  123,  124-126 
Perignon,   Dom,   50,   52 
P^rigueux,   191-194 
Peter  the  Hermit,  27,  37 
Petrarch  ^nd  Laura,  167,  168 
Philippe-Egalite,    293 
Phoenicians,   The,    Int.    i ;    134 
Physical    character    of    France, 

1,  2,  12 
Picard  patois,  15,  44 
Picardy,  Old  province  of,  1,  13, 

21,   28 
Picpus,  Cemetery  of,  295 
Pie,  Apple,   25,   32,   94 
Plessis-les-Tours,   208 
Plougastel,  244 
Poitiers,  11,  200-205 

,   Three  Battles  of,  201 

Poitiers,  Diane  de,  268 

Poitou,    Old,    200 

Pommard,  69 

Pont  I'Abbg,  Pardon  of,  241-243 

Pope(s),     158,     159,     162,     163, 

166 
Popes,  Palace  of,  158-160 
Porcelain,    196 
Portel,  Le,  23,  24 
Post  Office,  Reflections  on,  263, 

264 
Pourri^res,  Les,  139,  140,  167 
Provengal,    135,   150,    161,    162, 

167,  193 
Provence,  Count  of,  124,  176 
Provence,     Old,     11,     114,     128, 

130,  131,   134,   135,   140 
Puvis     de     Chavannes,     Pierre, 

painter,    88.   99,    284,    285 
Puy  de  Dome,  The,  80-83 

Queens   of  France : 

Anne   of   Brittany,    211,    215, 
216,  217 

Clotilde,  36,  61,  209,  280 

Marie-Antoinette 

Mary  Stuart.  214 

Medici,     Catherine    de',     126, 
214,    216,    219 

Medici,  Marie  de',  285 
Quimper,  240,  241 
Quixote,  Don,  153,  154 

Railroads.    4.     5,    6,    104,    115, 

121,  122,  142,  262 
Reflections,  in  St.  Ouen,  270 

13] 


INDEX 


Reims,    11,    52-60 

R§mi,  St.,  54,  55,  58 

R6my.  St.,  Roman  ruins  at,  167 

Renaissance   (period  and  style), 

64,    71,    106,    146,    184,    209, 

215,   216,   220,  221,  266,   267, 

273,    274,    283,    285 
Rene,    Count   of   Provence,    etc., 

140,  141,  168,  169,  228 
Restaurants,  82.  93,  94 
"Restoration,"  258 
Revolution,     The,     Int.     v ;     40, 

57,    173,    221.    283,    288,    289, 

293    294    295 
Richelieu,  '  Cardinal-Duke,     189, 

284 
Ringois,   Death   of,   28 
Riom,  Baths  of,  75,  76 
Riquet,   Paul,  179 
RiVEE : 

Aisne,    46 

Allier,    86 

Aveyron,   191 

Boivre,   201 

Cher,  207,  219,  220 

Clain,   201 

Dordogne,  191,  192 

Durance,    142 

Garonne,   187 

Gouet,   246 

Is^re,  100 

Liane,  14 

Loire,   72,   207,   227,   229 

Lot,    191 

Maine,  227,  229 

Odet,   240 

Orne,   261 

Rhone,    87,    91,    94,    98,    145, 
149,    158,    163 

Saone,  87,  90,  91,  92 

Seine,   262,   276,   277,  282 

Somme,  31,  42,  43,  44 

Steir,    240 

Tarn,  188 

Vannes,  234 

Var,   121 

Vere,   191 

Vienne,    213 

Vire,   256 
Rivers,    The,    1,    6,    14,    31,    42, 

43,    44,    72,    86,    87,    90,    91, 

92,     94,    98,     100.     104,     114, 

120,   121,   158,   163,  165,   187, 

188,   201,   206,  207,   213,  227, 

229,   234,  240,   246.   2.50,  253, 

261,  262,  276,  277,  279 
Rivoli,  rue  de   (and  victory  of), 

299 
Roads    ("flowing  roads"),   1,   6, 

31,  104-107,  253 


Riviera,   The,   126 

Robespierre,    M.,    terrorist,    88, 

288,  292 
Rochelle,   La,   193 
Rodin,  sculptor,  293 
Rognac,    142 

Rolin,   Dom  Nicolas,  66,   67,  68 
Rollo,  the  Ganger,  249,  250 
Romain,   St.,   268,   269 

,   Fierte  of,  269 

,  Privilege  of,  268,  269 

Roman  (s),   The,    Int.    i,  -  ii ;   12, 

36,  46.  72,  134,  135,  145,  146, 

147,   162,   170,   171,   176,  195, 

234,  280,   300 
Romanesque      (style),     23,     38, 

47,    54,    55,    71,    73,    79,    92, 

104,   142,   150,   162,   183,   184, 

198,   201,   221,   230,   231,  254, 

287 
Romano-Byzantine     (style),    64, 

300 
Rossetti,  D.  G.,  20 
Rouen,  249,  262-275,  279 
Roumanille,  Jotise,  poet,  162 
Rousseau,  J.  J.,  285 
Rouvel,  the  bell,  266 
Royat,  watering-place  and  town, 

75,   83-85 
Rude,  sculptor,  301 
Ruskin,  John,  critic,  37,  306 

Saints  mentioned,   138 

Sands,    Golden    (and   other),   1, 

13,   18,   22,   23,  24 
Saracens.   The,   Int.   i ;  27,   158, 

177,  207 
Sarah,  Black  St.,  155.  156 
Sardanas  (folk-dance),  237 
Sardinia,    Kings    of — See    Dues 

de  Scrvoie 
Savoie,   9,   105,   109,  110 
Scenery,  Natural   (inland,  coast, 
mountain,  railroad),  1,  2,  12, 
47,  48,  74,  75,  80,  81.  82,  83, 
86,  87,  98-101,  105,  106,  107, 
108,   113,   114,   118,   121,   122, 
129,    142-144.    170,    179,    180, 
191,   192,   208,  250,   256,   262, 
276 
Sculpture,  Mastery  of,  at  Reims, 

59 
Sculptures,  Reasons  for,  41 
Sea,  Blessing  of  the,  24 

,  Harvest  of  the,  239,  240 

Pardon  of  the.  243 


Sernin,     St.     (and    church    of), 

183-185 
Shoemaker,     M.     M,      (quoted), 

213 

I  314] 


INDEX 


Siren    of   the    Seine — See   Paris 

Sisteron,   114-118 

Sohier,  Hector,  architect,  252 

Soissons,   36,   45-47 

Soldiers,  types  of.  111,  207,  297 

Sorbon,  Robert  de,  284 

Sorbonne,   The,  284 

Sorel,   Agnes,   211 

Sorgne,  L'lle-sur-,  167 

Sorolla,  painter,  120 

Soup,   94 

Sous-le-Tour,    246 

Spain,  Fountain  in,  9 

Speed,  Folly  of,  in  France,  13 

Stair-streets,  16,  91 

Ste.'s-Maries-de-la-Mer,  Les,  154- 

157 
Street    scenes,    10,    14,    15,    44, 

45,   53,    63,   77,   78,   116,   117, 

119,   120,   137,   170,   174,   263, 

265,  292.  293,  303.  304 
Streets,   Names  of.   28,   29,   199, 

253,  282,  299,  303 
Switzerland,   99 
Syndicat  d'Initiation,  3,  4,   106 

Tapestries,    221 
Tarascon,  168,  169 
Tarasque.  The,  168,  169 
Tart-to-the-apples — See  Pie 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon,   168,  169 
Tea  (tea-rooms),  22,  23,  76 
Terror,  The,  Int.  v  ;  88,  221 
Thackeray.  19 
Theatre,    Greek,    of    Aries,    147, 

148 
Tickets,  R.R.,  4,  5 
Time-tables,  R.R.,  4 
Tissues  (t.-working),  96,  97 
Toibiac,   Battle  of,   36 
Tombarelli,      Sieur,      perfumer, 

126 
Tombs,  Early,  148,  149 
Touet-de-Beuil.    121 
Toulouse,   7.  181-187 
Touraine,  Old.  11.  75.  206,  208, 

209,  223,  227,  298 
Tourettes,    122 

Touriste,  The  true  French,  81 
Tourne-broche,    68 
Tours.    206-208 
Tonrves,  135 
Trafalgar  lost.   21 
Trains    (matchboxes,  et  al.).   2, 

121,  122,  142,   143,   154,  209, 

262 
Transition  (al)    style.   54,   287 
Traveling  companions,  5.  76 
Tristan    the    Hermit,    208,    212, 

225 

[315 


Trocadero  Museum.   The.   298 
TrOne,  Place  du,  294,  295 
Trophine,   St.,   Bishop   of  Aries, 

149,  150 
Trophine,  St.,  Cathedral  of,  150, 

151 
Troubadour  (8),     11,     161,     162, 

195,  200 
Trupln,    Jhan,   40 
Tuileries,  Palace  of,  296,  297 

University    of    Paris — See    Sor- 
bonne 

Vannes,    234-238 

Vassel,  G.,  jouglar,  160,  161 

Vauban,   engineer,   115 

Vence,   122 

Venetii,  The,  234 

Venice,"      Flaubert's      "Ignoble, 

271 
Venice,  A  literal  French,  43 
Venus   d'Arleg,   148 
Vercingetorix,  72,  80,  167 
Versailles,    299 
Vichy,   Baths  of,  75 
Victories  of  Napoleon  I,   299 
Villeneuve-les-Avignon,  164-167 
Villon,  Frangois,  281 
Vinci,  Leonardo  da,  215 
Vines,  American,  65 
Vineyards.  1,  65,  66,  69 
Viollet-le-Duc,  M.,  architect,  37, 

64.    79,    183,    229,    258,    289, 

306 
Visigoths       (Vlsigothie),       The, 

Int.  i,  ii;  36,  158,  201,  280 
Voiron,  Town  of,  99 
Volcanoes,  •   B  u  r  n  t  -  o  u  t — See 

Domes 
Voltaire,   285 

Washington,  Statue  of.  301 
Waters,      City     of    Dead  —  See 

Aigues-Mortes 
Weather,   1,    8,    53,    80,   81,   82, 

206 
William     the     Conqueror,     250, 

251,  254 
Wimereux.   22,    23 
Wine,  58,  59,  61,  62,  65,  68,  69, 

128.   160,   250 
Wineshop.  84.   245 
Witches,  Little,  120 
Woland,   pirate   chief.   249 
Wolsey,    The    French — Seg    Am- 

boise 
Women,  Worship  of.  161 
Wrong    side   of    cathedrals,    39, 

269,   270 


LOAN  DEPT. 


T  -n  91  A-40Tn-4,'63 
^(r)ll71slO)476B 


ID  o m' 


C 


¥' 


35853 


'-> 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY 


t1:-f'%f 


